He stood at the window over looking Grosvenor Square. A single candelabra on the piano and the low embers from the fire were the only illuminations for the room. Across the square a large house was gaily alight, occasionally carriages would come and go as revellers join the ball. If you strained your ears you could hear the music of the dances. It was the music that drew him to the window. He could barely hear the refrain through the glass. He reached and opened the clasp of the window. The chilled night air blew quickly into the room, extinguishing three of the five candles burning. William Darcy took no notice, the breeze brought with it the melody he had strained to hear. Mr Beveridge's Maggot.
In his mind eye he was no longer in London. He was at Netherfield dancing with Elizabeth Bennet and she was just an arms length away. He could smell her scent, watch her smile, press her hand.
The wheels of a passing carriage shook him out of his reverie. With a start he noticed the chill in the room. He closed the window and drew the blinds. Humming to himself he banked the fire and added several logs. He sat down at the piano and relit the candles but did not play. He gathered several sheets of manuscript that lay on the piano closer to him and began to transcribe the notes he hummed.
It was an obsession, a labour of love, a catharsis. An indulgence he had not allowed himself in years. When he was younger, first learning music, he use to play for his mother. When she was ill he would play her happy tunes to buoyed her sprit. When she was melancholy he would play sad sweet songs that would make her hold him tight. As he grew a little older and a little more proficient he would make up his own tunes to gladden his mothers heart. When she was well she would sit with him, she at the piano, and he on the violin. They would compose together. Soon his talents out grew hers. Masters came to Pemberley teach him the skill and he employed them diligently.
When he went away to school he was able to indulge his passions on occasion. When George Wickham was his roommate he would have hours by himself when the other young man was gallivanting around, getting into mischief. Later when his roommates changed, his studies grew harder and he started to spend time with like minded gentleman, he found that his violin would lay idle for months, his manuscripts unfinished.
Yet in his darkest hours or when life became too much, this was the release he sort. To him it was as reverent as pray. In his playing he found peace. A connection to self and God that he found in nothing else. This blasphemous notion had worried him for many years until he confessed his ideas to a philosophy fellow.
"God is found in all things, and prayer takes many forms. Why would God in His infinite glory create a world with such variety and then only want us to worship Him in one way. The traditions of the Church are important, they allow us to praise and worship, but He gave you a gift. If you neglect that gift you deny God your strongest prayers."
His mentors words had touched him and stayed with him still. Yet he knew that he had neglected his gift and denied himself and God his most reverent prays over the last few years.
When his father died he mourned through music. He spent hours and days playing until his fingers were too numb to hold the bow. However the stresses and responsibilities of Master, Landlord, Guardian and Brother had often outweighed the needs of self and God. It was as he was leaving for that first fateful trip to Netherfield that he impulsively asked his valet to ensure that his instrument was packed. At Netherfield he exorcised his demons and played through his guilt and worries over Georgiana and his anger with himself and Wickham.
It was through his music that he first understood the danger that Elizabeth represented. It was through his music that he was able to express his thoughts, feelings, fears and hopes. His violin travelled with him constantly now. And now, even though his future with Elizabeth was so uncertain, he found his peace in his music.
Tonight, as twilight had set on the day of Wickham's marriage to Lydia Bennet, he was a man possessed. For months he had a tune that had been turning over and over in his head. It had driven him to distraction; phrases, refines and themes tumbled into each other haphazardly. It wasn't till the interlude at Pemberley that it had started to crystallize. It was a duet for piano and violin.
It started with the piano and the violin, two unrelated, unconnected melodies. Then, from nothing, out of nothing, came the interest, the attraction, the longing. The violin starts to echo the piano, starts to follow its tune. They then start to interact. He recalls the quick witted arguments they shared and in the melody the piano and the violin spar.
He borrowed on themes on occasion, in the music you could hear a whisper of songs he related to her. He added, now, a hint of the Maggot. The lower hand of the piano played the tune while the upper hand conversed with the violin. He remembered the awkward conversation, his short responses, the unvoiced passion.
Then next refine told of his leaving, his longing while he was in London and his prideful belief that he did the right thing. Here the violin played an unaccompanied melody. He knew now that she had never though of him in that time. Soon the song moved to Kent. The piano returns and the instruments start to spar again. In the violin you hear the longing, in the piano apathy.
Then came the proposal. William Darcy cast his soul into this phrase. Here he gave over ever ounce of passion, pride, bitterness, hurt, discomfort and love. He allowed the music to sooth. He asked for forgiveness; from God, from Elizabeth, from himself.
As Darcy transcribed the final notes of the disastrous proposal the first rays of sunlight peaked through the curtains. Below stairs you could hear the servants of the house hold begin to raise. Outside the streets began to stir as milkman and bakers delivered their wares and late night revellers slowly made their way home.
He continued on unfazed and uninterrupted. His knocker was off the door, Georgiana was still at Pemberley and he had no business that would interrupt him. He worked on for days, eating sporadically and sleeping only when exhaustion drove him to it. He barely left the room.
Then to his immense frustration he hit a wall. Nothing would come. There was no notes, no melody, no inspiration. He sat at the piano, violin in hand, manuscript before him and … nothing. It wasn't finished, he knew there was more but nothing would come.
He sat there for a time, frozen in his seat, stagnant. Slowly he came out of the haze. He became increasingly aware of the pressure and discomfort in his lower regions. It had been some time since he availed himself of the nearby wash room. As he sat their trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to move he became aware of the gnawing sensation in his gut. It had been some time since he availed himself to food. He took a deep breath to sigh but instead wrinkled his nose in discussed. It had been some time since he availed himself to a bath and the attentions of his valet. Knowing there was nothing would come of staring at the music in front of him he rose awkwardly from the piano stool and made his way upstairs.
Latter, after he had washed, dressed and ate a light meal, he sat by the fire in his study sipping his port. All the agitation of the last year had fallen away to nothing. As he contemplated the flames he mulled over the setback with his music. He had added to the song the painful time after Kent, his soul searching, their meeting at Pemberley, the hope that had grasped his heart after the evening at his home. He had added the distressing morning at Lambton and the hunt for Wickham and Lydia.
Eventually a thought occurred to him. He had no more song because what had started at Pemberley, the hope he felt there, never had the opportunity to flourish. The story had not finished.
Fidgeting restlessly in his seat he got up he wandered about the room to the window. He gazed over the square. Afternoon was turning into evening. The house across the way, which was alight several nights before, lay dormant. Carriages passed moving from place to place, well dressed people strolled by and servants scurried about their masters business. For the first time in days Darcy felt and inclination for company. Darcy moved to his desk to see what cards and invitations had come. There were very few as few knew he was in town. His uncle, his cousin, a few friends and a few hangers on. He smiled as he pulled out one of the cards from the pile. Mr C. Bingley Esq. had called. The scrawled note on the back said he arrived back in town yesterday afternoon and asked Darcy to call at his convenience.
Darcy sat down at his desk to write a note in reply. He asked Bingley to meet him at the club for dinner. He passed into the hall giving his message to the footman and ask for his valet to be called. As he made his way upstairs Darcy hummed a hopeful tune.
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