A/N: I cannot even explain how tough the last few weeks have been for me. My children love to tag team when it comes to sleep. My youngest frequently keeps me up until 1am or later with his fussing, only for my four year old to wake me up at 6:30am. Their fighting would try the patience of a saint, but as a very sleep deprived Mum, I feel like I am fresh out of patience. Has anyone got some they could spare?
My beta has patience in spades! Thank you for tidying up my rather sloppy prose Lenniee (and for the language tips). And a special thanks to Sky Dreamer for helping me work through some of the thornier issues in this chapter and K for making sure there were no lurking historical disasters.
I hate to, but I have to remind everyone that I reserve the copyrights to this story: it is not to be copied, re-transmitted or published in any way shape or form, either in full or in part.
I was so delighted with last week's reviews! Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts with me and to those who sent me PMs also.
Chapter 9
Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.
How many times had Mrs. Hill expressed the same sentiment to Elizabeth? On a dozen occasions? A hundred? A thousand times? ...
Perhaps that was exaggerating, but Elizabeth had often been treated to the proverb when she arrived in the kitchens crying over an overheard cruelty, invariably uttered by her mother.
As a very young child, she had longed for Mrs. Hill to be outraged, and challenge Mrs. Bennet on her behalf. As she grew out of her sweet naivety, she had understood the servant could never be her champion, but she still appreciated having a sympathetic mother figure. Later, as a girl on the cusp of womanhood, Cook and Mrs. Hill had allowed her to pound her frustrations into the bread dough.
Elizabeth had not meant to overhear last night. As far as she was concerned, her husband's thoughts were his own. She wanted little to do with them, just as she wanted as little as practicable to do with the man himself.
"Then what are you going to do? Romp around London like my esteemed brother? Throw away your family fortune at the gambling tables? Lock the girl in the country like a shameful dormouse because of a youthful mistake?" The Colonel asked.
She would have walked away, but that last phrase caught her, like a hook catches a fish. He undoubtedly could do such a thing, once he got the issue he required off her, but would he?
"Do not presume to judge me," the unmistakable voice of her husband replied.
"She is comely enough, tempting even. Can you not find it in your heart to be grateful enough for that?"
Elizabeth barely blushed at the compliment. Why was the foolish Colonel goading her husband? She jumped when she heard what sounded like glass, thrown forcefully.
She went to retreat when she heard loud feet making their way around the room, but no-one actually come to the door, thus she leaned in more closely, and listened intently.
"Tempting? Have you lost your mind? Even if she were as beautiful as Helen of Troy –which she is not— I would not throw over all my family and personal expectations for a pretty face. You know, she brings nothing to this match, a pathetic £50 a year during her father's life." Her husband's harsh words were dripping with mockery and disdain.
"The skinflints did not even provide her with wedding clothes! She comes from a family that is barely gentrified. Her mother's family is from trade, but more than that, the lot of them are utterly uncouth. And of the lady herself?... She is as cheeky as a street urchin and will make me the laughing stock of the Town. Comely, Ha!"
Elizabeth curled her fists tightly enough to leave small red crescents on her palm, but the only sting she felt was that of humiliation and anger. She heard the colonel speak but did not register the words, and then he was suddenly in front of her. Too late to effect an escape.
Utterly mortified at being discovered, she began babbling, a seething combination of shame, anger and embarrassment making her shiver and tremble.
When he started apologising she felt a traitorous tear slip down her cheek. She easily shrugged away the Colonel's comment to the effect that Darcy was the best of men: she could be hardly accused of prejudice for thinking that a man who had treated her meanly throughout their marriage was, in fact, mean. She equally brushed aside his concern along with his empty assurances and adopted a mask of good-natured serenity.
Elizabeth could not be entirely sure that her forced cheer, projected until the guests departed, had convinced all. Certainly the Colonel had given her more than a handful of sympathetic glances, and for all his excessive and irritating gallantry, she had noted that Lord Carbeck's eyes had been soft as she had bid the family goodnight.
The Viscount had even asked her permission to say a quick goodnight to her husband, a gesture of kindness and respect, considering he hardly needed her approval. She had only nodded, unable to trust her voice or her composure to hold much longer. She knew not what time he left or how he had made his way home.
In a normal household she may have allowed the façade of calm to crack upon reaching her rooms, not so at Darcy house. Who could imagine Mrs. White in the role of the motherly lady's maid, patting her quietly disheartened mistress on the back, and ordering her a soothing hot chocolate? Pigs would sooner fly!
Instead, she had roughly brushed out Elizabeth's hair, all the time muttering over her disobedient wild curls, as if she were the one having her scalp tugged painfully.
By the time Elizabeth had finally gained the luxury of privacy and the opportunity for a good cry, no tears had come. The humiliation stung, but the anger burned too hot for tears.
Upon waking, Elizabeth had wondered how she would face her husband with equanimity that morning.
She attempted to catalogue every wrong she could have suffered as a wife. He did not beat her –yet– a small insidious voice whispered in her mind. He had not exiled her to the country –yet– echoed the voice again. He had not forced intimacy, and she really did think he never would. The voice inserted the caveat that he would not, so long as she continued to cooperate in his goal to father an heir. It could have been worse, and it could yet be worse, if she did not tread carefully.
After going through the mental torture of her morning toilette with Mrs. White, Elizabeth was in the breakfast room, bracing herself for the coming encounter with her husband.
She ate sparingly but quickly, while unobserved. This may have been a critical error, as she felt her stomach threaten to mutiny almost immediately. It seemed determined to eject her half muffin smeared with honey and the lone buttered egg she had consumed, when footsteps were heard in the hall. But to her astonishment, if not relief, the gentleman who joined her was not her out-of-favour husband, but his eldest cousin.
"Merry Christmas, Cousin," she offered politely. "What a surprise to see you, so early… Please join me." She gestured to a seat opposite her, across the table. But with a predacious grin, Lord Carbeck ignored her prompt –and the other dozen or so empty place settings– to take the chair immediately to her right. He wriggled in a mildly indecent manner, settling himself on his chosen chair.
"The usual expression is: what a 'pleasant' surprise. Your omission wounds me, my beauty," he said, picking up her hand for a kiss. She tried to pull it back but his grip was firm. He steered the hand closer, pressing her now splayed fingers against his chest. The move transgressed the bounds of gallantry and made her blush. What did he mean behaving in such a way in front of her husband's servants?
"You are doing it a bit brown, Sir," she drawled, trying to discourage his forward conduct. She felt his deep chuckle vibrate through her palm.
Finally he released her captive limb. "Perhaps," he replied.
At that moment Simmons slipped into the room, confidently gesturing the silent attending footman to follow him. Elizabeth watched the two converse in whispers just outside the open door, not concerned or even overly curious. She trusted the very capable butler implicitly.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Lord Carbeck again made for her hand, attempting to place his own over hers. Catching the movement on the periphery she neatly avoided his intent. "I think you ought to keep your hands to yourself," she said briskly.
"A mere familial gesture of comfort, but if you choose to be missish—" He left the comment hanging, and yet Elizabeth did not repent her protest. In a mercurial shift, his eyes turned soft again, much like they had the evening prior. "I suspect you had a poor time of it last night: the strain of meeting the family, presenting a united front with your spouse when you are anything but —"
"I would beg you not to speculate about the state of my marriage. It is nothing to you," she said, cutting him off and hopefully severing the thread of his thoughts.
Elizabeth did not enjoy such luck. With the ominous declaration of offering his assistance, the Viscount began waxing eloquent on the theme of Darcy's inner worth. He claimed that although Darcy had the manners of a boor and the temper of a bear, he was still a good and honest man, a man who could surprise her if she would but let him. He even ventured, with a frown, that he had long suspected all that was wanted to make Darcy's manners more generally pleasing was the love of a good woman.
Elizabeth's temples began to throb. She'd had quite enough of being told to cherish her churlish husband. "Both you and your brother appear to be reading from the same script, but I contend that Mr. Darcy has never even heard of the play," she quipped raising a brow, but she made her tone sharp without being shrill.
A lazy grin overtook his features. Not the reaction she had anticipated. "Au contraire, chérie," he said playfully. "Darcy knows all the plays. Never fear, he will play the misunderstood hero, then the dashing lover –not as dashing is myself, I own, but who is?–but he never deigns to play the villain: he considers such roles, such vices, beneath him. If you appeal to his sense of justice he will generally relent, once his temper cools; that is my advice to you."
"Mr. Darcy is naught but a man, although a very rich one. The stage deals in extremes: virtuous maidens, shining heroes, black-hearted villains. The righteous live happily ever after, the evil meet a painful end. I think that ordinary individuals strive for contentment, but many merely end up unsatisfied and unhappy in the manner of the mundane."
Elizabeth observed his nostrils flare, and then his face go still except for the occasional twitch of his mouth and jaw, as if he were sampling the flavour of her sentiments. How he felt about them in the end she could hardly tell, because in another dizzying shift he was again all seductive smiles and extravagant chivalry.
He begged her to serve him with some food. For any food that came from her hands must taste like the food of the gods, likely to make him veritably weep with pleasure –or so he professed.
Caught off guard, Elizabeth had meant to scoff, but his novel request, absurd speech and eager expression were just so ridiculous she giggled instead. Clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes caught movement in the doorway and there stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, with his eyes narrowed, looking first to his brother then at herself, seated alone in the breakfast room, albeit with the door wide open.
"Good morning, Sir, and a Merry Christmas to you. Have you eaten? You must join us." Elizabeth was pleased that her hostess' training filled the awkward pause, and to her even greater relief, Georgiana chose that moment to appear with Mrs. Annesley, her companion, whom Elizabeth had met briefly the night before. Mrs. Annesley, the Colonel and her new sister took seats all in a row, on the opposite side of the table.
The Colonel, with generous thanks, tucked into the meal, piling his plate with a combination of foods running the gamut from savoury to sweet, with a rather delectable pastry precariously perched on the edge of his hoard.
Unable to help herself, Elizabeth was rather unconventional in her choices for Lord Carbeck. He received sausages, kidneys, buttered eggs, a slice of toast and a mountain of sautéed mushrooms. Elizabeth usually disdained the decidedly greasy and old-fashioned spread –and mourned the accompanying wastage– but today it suited her purposes very well. The blond Lord frowned at his plate, not only devoid of fruit but absent any preserve covered rolls, cakes and pastries as well.
His disgruntled mien was most gratifying and only became more pronounced when she said, with an impish grin, "Your temper being so saccharine this morning, I thought you did not need any further sweetening." The mark of her little joke returned her look sourly, while Elizabeth could have sworn she heard Georgiana's staid companion stifle a budding laugh.
Beverages were offered, prepared and duly accepted, the men uniformly opting for the coffee and the ladies partaking of the tea. The company ate in silence for a few moments, including Elizabeth, who had buttered an entire roll this time, smearing the one half with an apricot preserve and the other with strawberry. Since her earlier selections had been rather light and she did not want to sit awkwardly at the table while her companions ate, a second helping seemed sensible.
Thus she was more incredulous than outraged when her neighbour trespassed onto her very plate to snatch up the apricot half of her roll. Three feminine gasps met his bold, impolite move. Georgiana's lips were formed in a perfect 'o' of shock, an expression Elizabeth was sure she mirrored. The Colonel emitted a loud grunt a split second later and seemed to be on the verge of censuring his brother, but was stayed when another individual joined their merry little party.
Mr. Darcy strode into the room, surveying the scene before him in his habitually severe manner. Elizabeth felt a swooping sensation in her stomach. She could not look at him, she simply could not. His harsh words from the night before were still wreaking havoc on her composure, already stretched thin by this morning's challenges.
Insensible to much beyond her churning emotions, she muttered a greeting, not even sure of what she had said but a moment after the words had left her mouth. Elizabeth felt rather than saw Lord Carbeck lean towards her, his breath just tickling the shell of her ear when he whispered, "Where is your backbone, girl? I will give you your sweet back if you can retake your courage."
"Keep your ill-gotten prize," she muttered under her breath, surreptitiously edging her plate to the left and away from the pilfering Lord.
To Elizabeth's dismay, her obnoxious relative by marriage then resumed his prior campaign of outrageous flirting. Though she endeavoured to meet his plaguing manner with nonchalance, the palpable tension at the table grew to monstrous proportions. Until her husband snapped. "Go home. Flirt with your own wife, and leave mine alone," said he, his tone both scathing and too loud.
Not one to be cowered, Lord Carbeck countered with a few witty retorts and even tried to bring her into the dispute, but thankfully, with a vague set down he desisted, and departed shortly thereafter. As did Mr. Darcy and the Colonel, at the military man's request.
With the males, so went the tension. Even so, her suggestion to remove to the music room was gladly welcomed by her remaining companions, and the ladies departed also.
Elizabeth's days rattling around the large house with only her touchy husband for company were over, but soon enough the pendulum would swing in the other direction. The campaign to cement the new Darcy wife would entail entertaining– more parties, more balls and more dinners… more society than she honestly cared for. The next of these would be a dinner for Mr. Darcy's friends, the Bingleys, three nights hence.
She ought to do her duty to her sister before the whirlwind commenced and check over Georgiana's education, though she would do so in a manner as politic as she could contrive.
~~~v.-O-.v~~~
Was it too drastic a reversal to describe his wife as a consummate hostess? Wondered Darcy seated at the head of his table, surveying his guests and women.
Surely the dinner with his family had flirted with disaster, but then again, the Fitzwilliam gatherings were never for the faint of heart.
Lord Carbeck, Lady Carbeck and Lady Catherine all in the same room… He shuddered at the thought, and at the memory of the last Easter they had spent together perhaps ten months after Lord Carbeck's marriage. It was the final time the whole Fitzwilliam clan had been together, and for good reason. Even his uncle had lost his typically firm grip on his temper on that occasion.
And yet, on the other hand, smoothly entertaining the Bingley family, including that sloth Hurst and his wife, was certainly no easy feat.
Darcy had known trouble was on the horizon when Elizabeth had appeared in a soft orange gown. He had been acquainted with Miss Bingley for many years now, long enough to know that the lady believed she had a monopoly on the often garish colour.
By God, the dress looked magnificent on Elizabeth. It was not a lurid orange, rather, the crushed silk was more the shade of old vellum, with buttery tones where the fabric caught the light, while the deeper creases appeared to be that subtle orange or, in some places, a brown colour even.
As was typical with Elizabeth's choice in attire, she had not muted the richness of the fabric with excessive embellishment. The gown had a thick braid, shimmering and golden, wrapped just under the line of the ruched bust of the dress. Thinner braids in the same metallic material circled both arms at the edge of her sleeve. Otherwise, the only other feature was a thin line of lace running along the edge of the dress' neckline, caressing the globes of her breasts, pushed up enticingly by her stays.
His gaze may have lingered on her bosom overlong, but he congratulated himself on not reaching out, on not running his index finger along those tantalizing dips and swells. The temptation still made his fingers itch and tingle. He had not made any nocturnal visits to his wife since their discussion several evenings before.
Shaken by the candid conversation, Darcy had felt unequal to the challenge of bedding his wife for a multitude of reasons, many of them conflicting. Unsatisfying as the restrained acts had been, nonetheless they had obviously allotted him some measure of relief in days prior, if his new state of heightened awareness was anything to judge by.
Confident that she was nothing more than an avaricious chit, whose entrapment had more to do with luck than intelligence, his anger-addled mind had found it well within its power to justify maniplulating her as he saw fit.
The occasional twinges of conscience, usually when she behaved in a way unexpected, were dismissed, some with more effort than others. That is, until the combined instincts or common observations from Lord Carbeck and then Colonel Fitzwilliam had cracked his formerly secure view of his marriage and wife.
The advice of his cousins to observe his wife more closely had shown him much to admire: her fine mind principally, that is when he was not distracted or beguiled by the sweet little package it was wrapped up in. His fear of her sensuality was all tied up in his belief that she had willfully and intentionally set out to pin him in the parson's mousetrap, and thus would not hesitate to use any weapon to control him, including his own desire. As his uncertainty over her true motives grew, so did his carnal craving for her. But where did his lust for her end and his burgeoning appreciation for her intellect begin?
Darcy had watched her trounce his uncle –a worthy opponent – at chess. A victory of merit and deserving of respect. But the way she had twirled a curl around her finger while thinking was entirely hypnotic, her head tilted to the side exposing the elegant line of her neck had made him long to worship it with his lips and perhaps his teeth. He had been frequently distracted by the way Elizabeth had tapped her finger against her smirking mouth when she was about to make a clever move. Darcy vividly remembered that mouth opened in pleasure when she rode him on their wedding night. The overwhelming urge to see that rictus of rapture again –as soon as could be– had accelerated his breathing and tightened specific parts of his anatomy.
Lord Carbeck had darkened his threshold yet again, and flirted with his wife yet again, using Lady Matlock's calls as cover in the manner of a soldier and Trojan horse. And like the soldiers of legend, he had generated much mischief, but not of the variety his cousin no doubt intended.
Mrs. Darcy would have none of his antics, her subtle witty set downs frequently made Lady Matlock laugh, and although not quite as demonstrative, her sharp tongue and clever humour delighted Darcy. Her verbal lashings though, were often accompanied by an impish expression, a raised eyebrow and cheekily pursed lips; therein lay the trouble. The look became her very well, and seemed to rob Darcy of his senses: he had always been a touch too late with rejoinders, if he could manage to say anything at all. Upon reflection, Darcy felt like he had often sat there in silence, like the veriest fool, while the suave Lord Carbeck bandied inanities with his wife.
His cousin had undoubtedly derived as much enjoyment laughing at Darcy's ineptitude as he did gazing on the pretty Mrs. Darcy. The anger had carried him through the afternoon and made him short with his wife in the evening, dashing any chances –slim though they may have been– of visiting her rooms later.
Darcy owned he had not gained much ground when guests were absent and he had his ladies to himself either. In the manner of youths –be they male or female– Georgiana had proven very inconstant in her disapproval and annoyance with her new sister. It had both pleased and disappointed Darcy: Georgiana's genuine pleasure in a companion closer to her age was a boon and yet, could no-one remain at odds with his wife but him?
He also had reason to question his wife's novel methods of motivating the girl to improve her language skills. Two days prior, on walking the halls of his home, a stream of well-spoken French had tickled his ears, but though the language was immaculately pronounced, the content was skirting the very edge of propriety: a suggestive, though not outright vulgar, joke about the baker's daughter and the undertaker.
As if pulled by a magnetic force, his feet had turned of their own volition and marched him the few remaining steps to the music room, where his allegedly genteel women were arrayed. Georgiana was furiously flicking through her previously disparaged French dictionary with an intense look of concentration, usually reserved for musical pursuits. Disappointingly, Mrs. Annesley had joined in the questionable mirth, and as for the author of this little impropriety, his wife, she was literally glowing with amusement.
Darcy had been about to reprimand his wife for the unorthodox lesson, but upon apprehending his presence, the rosy, pleasant colour of her cheeks had suddenly vanished. Face as white as his cravat, she had mumbled a greeting and then fixed her gaze on her fingers, suddenly engaged in smoothing out a multitude of imaginary creases in her skirt.
Georgiana, bewildered by her sister's rapid alteration in attitude, had looked at him in mild consternation, before asking him innocently what a testicle was.
Darcy had just about choked, and Mrs. Darcy made a similar gagging sound before she managed to regain enough composure to tell Georgiana in a steady enough voice, "Your ear needs just as much attention as your pronunciation, the necessity of revising your diphthongs cannot be underestimated. I very clearly said la cuillère: the spoon. Not la couille: …well… Let us move on to some Italian instruction, what say you, Mrs. Annesley?"
It was nigh on impossible to reconcile the naughty lady who peddled saucy foreign jokes with the picture of poise that presided over his table in that very moment.
He needed no crystal ball to know that Miss Bingley would cross his threshold inclined to hate Mrs. Darcy, if for no other reason than for stealing the appellation Miss Bingley had long coveted. Before her brother had even finished introducing him as his friend from university, it was obvious the young woman had singled Darcy out as the companion of her future life. A lofty goal she had pursued with relentless determination, even in the face of his polite indifference and occasional unmasked flashes of contempt.
Yes, he had no doubt that her name alone would preclude Mrs. Darcy from gaining Miss Bingely's approval or friendship. But Miss Bingley had nearly had an apoplexy upon seeing Mrs. Darcy dressed in her signature colour.
Seeing the two women side by side, Darcy had again noted abstractly that although he had cordially detested orange when worn by his friend's peacock of a sister, the colour seemed to bring a glow to his wife's complexion, and it may have been his appreciative glances as much as the encroachment that set Miss Bingley off. Her thinly veiled contempt had been seconded by her parrot of a sister, and even the affable Bingley had squirmed in embarrassment at his relations' not-so-covert rudeness.
The predominant theme, the decoration of Darcy house, had carried them through into the dining room. "How pleased I am to note the eternal elegance of Darcy house has been preserved, Mr. Darcy. I applaud your lack of new decoration, Mrs. Darcy. It shows an admirable restraint I had not anticipated from your quarter. I have often thought these hallowed walls could use some modern adornment, certainly, but only a true lady could ever hope to balance the rich history present in Darcy house with a tasteful update. You have been wise to demur," said Miss Bingley, her voice superior, her manner grating on Darcy already. But years of exposure to her intermittent nonsense and with months as her houseguest he had built up a tolerance to her spite, an immunity, as one would call it. His wife had no such experience, and he naturally feared her temper, which had proven to be quite volatile in their short marriage.
Ready to act as he must to avert another dining disaster, he looked to his wife. She was holding on to her composure by a thread, but it was not anger that made her eyes sparkle and her lips tremble: it was glee and barely subdued laughter.
"Quite right, Miss Bingley, Darcy house is rich with antiquities; I will do my utmost to accord them the proper respect. I have not given a great deal of thought to how I might like to decorate. What would you suggest?" said Elizabeth, grinning like a housecat presented with a full bowl of cream, it was the same expression she had worn just before declaring checkmate to his uncle earlier in the week.
Darcy could only blink. Except for some fine paintings in the upper gallery, near to everything in the house was no older than thirty years, and as much as he loved his mother, he knew that a great deal of the decoration was in questionable taste. The gilt Greek statuary imitations were especially heinous. He knew he really ought to have done something about the decorating before now, but against the heavy responsibilities of running the family estates and managing their business interests, along with the care of a young girl, wallpaper and furnishings had paled into insignificance; thus the task was relegated to next week, next month or next season, for years on end. It was also an unrivalled test to sift the wheat from the chaff, his true friends from toadies, for no-one but a sycophant could compliment the décor with a straight face.
From that point on Caroline dominated the dinner conversation, offering a plethora of suggestions, from a Gothic inspired guest wing, to a Romanesque parlour, and a library using Egypt as the all-encompassing theme. Poor Georgiana sat with her eyes wide and mouth agape. He observed Elizabeth giving the girl a covert wink before telling Miss Bingley that an Egyptian library would be just the thing. "Don't you think, Husband?" his wife enquired with exaggerated innocence.
At the verbal reminder of their indissoluble relationship, Miss Bingley's enthusiasm faltered, but Mrs. Darcy's manners did not. She engaged Mrs. and Mr. Hurst in neat dialogue on their estate and plans for their time in town. Elizabeth did pause when Mr. Hurst bemoaned the loss of the fine hunting to be had at Netherfield, immediately enquiring why this should be so. Upon hearing of Bingley's disinclination to return to Hertfordshire, Elizabeth turned a suspicious glare Darcy's way, making him lose the thread of Bingley's conversation.
The men did not linger long over port, not from any great eagerness to mingle with the females, but in the recognition that this first meeting between Miss Bingley –always cutting, but bound to be doubly so in light of her disappointed hopes– and the ensconced Mrs. Darcy could be nothing but fraught. It could easily turn vicious if not closely monitored, for Bingley's sister had always been more determined than wise.
The entire situation made Darcy question the elaborate game of good manners. He had never warmed to his friend's sister, but good breeding and his great value for Bingley had prevented him from cutting the pretentious cit. Now he was entertaining a viper, exposing his wife and sister to her persistent disappointed malice, all because he had been a guest in the house of his good friend; not her house, mind, but his friend's. The obligation was patent, but frustrating nonetheless.
Eager to recover lost ground, Miss Bingley insisted that Mrs. Darcy open the instrument and exhibit forthwith.
The moment had come. He should have been better prepared. He should have coached her to…. to… what?... lie? He doubted his own ability to contrive a story plausible enough to prevent embarrassment. But despite their rough start, the idea of Elizabeth being ridiculed by a creature such as Miss Bingley was intolerable.
Darcy tried but no doubt failed to conceal his alarm, but it was clear Mrs. Darcy did not share his apprehension; she floated across the room, a sly smile barely lifting the corners of her lips. His wife's delighted amusement persisted all the way to Georgiana's beloved piano forte, commissioned from James Ball's London workshop not twelve months before the Prince Regent patronised the maker and turned his two month waiting list to that of two years for all new orders.
To cringe as your wife settles on the seat could never be good form, so Darcy quietened his trepidation and adopted an aloof mask, but he still watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. Georgiana supplied a few sheets of music from the far side of the room obviously at her sister's request. He was too far to discern which piece she had elected to play, but noted that Georgiana frowned ambiguously at the paper.
Elizabeth ran her fingers over the rich grain of the lid before opening it up and stretching her fingers. The time seemed to stretch infinitely in Darcy's mind before the first note vibrated through the room.
His wife closed her eyes in sensual pleasure at the fine sound of the first set of chords. The instrument by the standards of the house might be considered plain in appearance but its tone was without peer. As was her playing, to Darcy's great surprise and chagrin.
Her musical offering was most unexpected. The meticulousness and sensitivity with which she caressed the keys was a revelation, but the song was also like nothing he had ever heard before. Foreign and haunting, the chords built the presence of a melancholy and fear he could almost touch. Elizabeth swayed in time to the mournful tune, rarely consulting the sheets but playing from memory and from her heart.
Shortly her vocals began to bleed over the music, wavering not because of a lack of strength in her voice, but from an overwhelming depth of feeling. He could understand none of the words, but the eloquence of her rich voice evoked a sense of pleading, of begging, of unabashed piteous supplication. He could not tell the source of the suffering, but the extent of it was overwhelming. It was a breathtaking performance, surprising in every way: from her exceptional musicality, lovely voice, and that indefinable something that constricted his chest.
In the midst of her performance Darcy was haunted by his ignorant dismissal of her accomplishments. He vividly remembered telling the girl that he would arrange for a piano to be sent to her rooms once they reached Pemberley, so that her amateur playing need not trouble the household. Could he have been any more of a clod?
Though, he did wonder how a lady raised in that backwater of a neighbourhood could have cultivated such a superb musical talent. Surely her opportunities to study with a genuinely capable music master would have been few and far between, and he could hardly imagine Mrs. Bennet, or indeed Mr. Bennet, providing the framework of strict discipline required to achieve that level of proficiency at such a young age. Could she have been away from home on a quest for improvement? But why would the family be so secretive about their absent daughter, if that were the case? Wouldn't Mrs. Bennet have crowed incessantly about her accomplished daughter? And for that matter, why had Elizabeth not corrected him, asserted her achievements?
A final keening wail and a tapering off of some soft chords ended the song, but it was some moments before anyone was prepared to break the spell and applaud. When Darcy brought his own hands together, he noticed that they were shaking.
Miss Bingley stalked over to the instrument, standing behind Elizabeth's right shoulder since Georgiana still stood at her left. The tall woman hunched her shoulders to scrutinise the music score through narrowed eyes, the ridiculously long feathers attached to her large turban quivering with her agitation.
"But what strange language is it in?" enquired Miss Bingley with evident distaste, squinting at the words below the music.
"It is in Arabic," replied Elizabeth.
Beside Darcy, Bingley let out a big sigh, followed by a gay laugh. "So I was not the only one who did not understand a word of it, jolly good!" said he.
"I do not think any Arabic speakers would even understand me. My pronunciation is shockingly bad, though I should not admit it: I may just have been able to pass myself with some degree of credit, had I but kept quiet."
"It was so sad," interjected Georgiana. "What did the words mean?"
Elizabeth straightened her spine before answering, and Darcy suspected that her stare was contrived to rest anywhere but his direction.
"The song is a plea to God, a wife begging for divine intervention to spare her the indignity of loving her husband," Elizabeth said, squeezing Georgiana's hand. Darcy felt his own hand curl into a tight fist.
"But why on earth would one not wish to love one's spouse?" inquired an incredulous Bingley. A long pause followed the question.
"Many reasons I suppose," said Elizabeth with an unconscious frown. "But in this case the woman is one of many wives. She believes, and perhaps not unreasonably, that loving her husband can bring her nothing but humiliation and pain."
"Oh," sighed Georgiana, but Darcy felt the statement viscerally himself, like a blow to the stomach. The lingering effect of the music, perhaps?
"One of many wives!" decried Miss Bingley. "What a barbaric, wicked practice!"
His wife leaned back on the seat and gave a little laugh, "I do not know about wicked. Moses was reported to have kept three wives... But I feel for the woman, bound in an unequal union, afraid to even lose the freedom of her heart," his wife mused, sliding the sheets together.
To everyone's surprise Mr. Hurst took that moment to enter the conversation in a gruff manner, "An unfair system, I believe. It must place great strain on a man providing for the wellbeing of multiple women and their respective offspring."
Eyes riveted on Elizabeth, Darcy saw the wry expression that slipped across her countenance.
"I think the provision of material support is not the key issue," said Darcy. "The essence of polygamy places a woman in a disadvantaged position, to have so many rivals within her own home. She does not own her husband in the manner of a monogamous English wife."
"English wives own their husbands, you say?" Elizabeth turned towards him with a raised brow. "We view the construction of matrimony very differently, then. Short of intentionally causing her death, there is very little an English husband cannot do to his wife. All of us married ladies live on sufferance."
"I would never hurt you," he replied too quickly, wincing even as he said the words, which trod the fine line between interpretation and outright falsehood.
Perhaps he had never caused her pain of the physical kind, but he could not deny that he had done nothing to secure her happiness. His reflections these last few days prompted him to admit –even if only within the privacy of his own mind– that he had likely caused his wife some emotional pain with his more boorish statements.
"It is not about what an honourable man would do, but what all husbands are entitled to do by law which offends my, and I daresay many wives', sensibilities." The skepticism was there in her body language, if one looked close enough, though his wife's face was sweet.
"I shall obey my husband in all things. I have a great respect for the natural order of marriage and see no need to rail against it or lament," said Miss Bingley, leaning sharply away from his wife, though she stopped short of taking an actual step away. Nevertheless, Miss Bingley's opinion of her hostess was made evident by the ugly twist of her mouth.
"I am sure your husband will be blessed with happiness," Elizabeth replied, her countenance vacant but for the telltale sparkle in her eyes.
"What I want to know is how a Hertfordshire flower like yourself got her hands on a song all the way from the sandy Middle East," said Bingley, steering the conversation into safer waters, bless him.
Standing up, Elizabeth nodded at Bingley, bestowing upon him a dazzling smile. "Ah, but the song is not truly of that region or even from that region. It was written by a European traveller who spent many years immersing himself in the various cultures and customs of the Ottoman Empire and other nations situated on its borders. Thus we get a song written for our own instruments, with a foreign flavour, but still within my meager capabilities."
Turning to Miss Bingley, Elizabeth fastened her hands on the lady's upper arm, steering her closer to the instrument. "Now it is your turn, I have heard much praise of your playing. You must play a piece, I insist."
No coaxing was required. Miss Bingley played and sang her way through a complex Italian aria with technical perfection. It was a piece Darcy must have heard played twenty or more times, at numerous dinners and musicales, by various society Misses. Miss Bingley played the same song, the same way, with a ponderous precision that made the undeniably difficult piece utterly boring. His mind naturally wandered to Elizabeth's heart-wrenching song, though his mask of polite attention remained affixed.
When Elizabeth had faltered he had not thought of missed keys, but rather those fleeting imperfections had added to the musical spell she wove. Her comments also plagued his mind. Darcy had never raised a hand to his wife, but hurt could come in many forms. He was guilty of considering her wishes irrelevant, purely because of how their union had come about. Regret and uncertainty formed a large lump in his throat.
Did she feel only slightly less vulnerable than the woman of the song? And if her views on marriage matched the expressed sentiment, why had she been willing to go along with Mrs. Bennet's scheme? His heavy thoughts and the increasingly heavy pounding of the keys as Miss Bingley raced toward her crescendo made his head throb painfully.
Miss Bingley's air was triumphant as she finished the last few flourishes of her song, the conquering expression clearly directed at his wife. It raised Darcy's hackles ever so slightly.
"You know, I could recommend some more fashionable pieces to you, Mrs. Darcy, the most popular compositions," offered Miss Bingley, adopting that condescending manner again, the one that usually bothered Darcy no more than a gnat buzzing around his ear, but now he found her continued assaults on his wife increasingly infuriating.
That his wife was not of the same mind was readily apparent by her reply, which was all humility and friendliness. Now seated between Mrs. Hurst and Georgiana, Elizabeth raised a small hand, "A kind offer, I am sure, but alas I would not do that or any such piece much credit," she said, flexing her fingers. "You see, I have not been blessed with the digits to execute the most complex compositions. You on the contrary carried off that song with the precision of a striking clock."
Or perhaps Mrs. Darcy was not as accommodating as she appeared! Darcy had to stifle a smile at the subtle jab: yes he could liken Miss Bingley's playing to listening to a ticking clock, though, to the clock's credit, it was usually quieter.
"Oh, but you could modify the songs to suit your limitations! I could ask my music master about it tomorrow," said Georgiana kindly, missing the restrained byplay between the two hostile females.
Elizabeth patted her sister's arm affectionately but looked at Miss Bingley when she said, "That is a dear thought, sweetling, but as a wife I have many duties to attend to, less opportunities to exhibit and a great deal less incentive to demonstrate my questionable musical prowess."
Innocent Georgiana nodded at the explanation, while Miss Bingley's eyes narrowed. The small smile that played at the corners of his wife's mouth made a warm feeling spread through Darcy's chest.
Georgiana was sent off to bed, to rest well before her lessons on the morrow. Once deprived of her company, Miss Bingley began to claim fatigue, her tone becoming insistent when Mr. Hurst suggested they make up a four for cards.
Thus their company was seen off earlier than anticipated, but not so early as to signal rudeness on the part of either party.
"So how did you like the Bingleys?" asked Darcy once all the hubbub of departure was through.
"I have met them before," she replied languidly.
"At the Netherfield ball? In the receiving line? For all of three minutes, I would guess." His mention of the ball that had sealed his fate made her blanch.
Recovering with the speed of a ton veteran she said, "Mr. Bingley is a very gentleman-like man, Mr. Hurst… well he did our table justice. Mrs. Hurst was very… pleasant?"
Darcy absentmindedly followed her up the stairs, perhaps moving a shade too close at times. "And Miss Bingley?" he prompted.
A wide smile lit up her face, and it was like clouds parting after the rain. "I adored her! Is she always like that? She was almost too delightful to be believed," she gave him a sly grin. "You broke her heart very badly, I suspect. I shall have to punish you with an Egyptian Library or perhaps I shall re-do your study in the exquisite manner of 1001 Arabian nights."
Drawn by her light and teasing tone, Darcy almost said that Miss Bingley's pursuit had nothing to do with hearts but everything to do with pocket books and connections, but in an unprecedented display of self-regulation he curbed the statement, only laughing in reply.
Then they were standing before her door. The idea of going inside with her inflamed his senses, and before he knew it, he had taken a small step closer. Was he imagining it, or could he really feel the heat radiating off her body? Elizabeth let go of the doorknob, standing there before him awkwardly. Oh he wanted to go in, but more than that he wanted to be invited in by his lovely wife, and yet she said nothing.
After another span of tense seconds he cleared his throat. "Though it is not something often associated with the Lady, Miss Bingley does make a good point: the house actually could use some modernising. Could you… Or perhaps you would like to start with one room we could assess… Or rather go from there–"
Elizabeth reached out, maybe with the intention to silence his mouth with her finger, but paused before making contact. The slim digit hovered there, teasing him, tantalising him. Darcy wanted to open his mouth and take it in. He almost groaned at the thought.
She shook her head, dropping the hand. "I think I may have drunk too much wine with dinner," she said. "I promise no outlandish themes, just an elegant English home, or the best that I can contrive… I am very tired." The last was said hesitantly, her dark eyes assessing him: friend or foe? they asked.
"Of course," he replied, "I understand." Did he? Or did it merely feel like the correct response? Whatever the case, a brief expression of gratitude lifted her lips in a tiny smile and she slipped through the door, leaving her very aroused but ultimately confused husband to lean his forehead against the closed door and wonder why he had not pressed for the intimacy he craved this night, or the nights prior, and if he were creating a dangerous precedent in his marriage.
**Softly Chants** Review, Review, Review. Please…..