Miss Darcy would never relate the word 'starved' to any part of her life, but it was that piteous state which had coloured her appetite of late. She did not lack food, but the less material sustenance of company had been long denied her, making her cheek pale and her eyes over-eager with every slighting glance.
Her aunt saw this nervousness as a hereditary trait shared with her own daughter, Anne. Her strident good health led her to offer the sure comfort to her niece that, at least, it was only an indisposition shared by the younger, female members of the family. She herself was only prone to a slight headache from time to time. It was common knowledge that the family's circumstances would have been far worse if Fitzwilliam had been affected. Georgiana must pray to G-d, said the good woman, in gratitude for his giving weakness to the sister and thus overlooking the brother entirely.
Georgiana held her tongue, with only a small amount of impatience. She might have informed her aunt of the sharp head pains which sometimes kept her brother to his rooms for days at a time, or proven her own stout health by walking about the entire parkland without stopping, but neither option crossed her mind. If her aunt wished to name her an invalid so be it; in turn, she readily agreed to stay away from her detestably idle cousin Anne, pleading fear of being contagious. The obvious relief in her aunt's assent made slow anger warm her blood, and she excused herself to the instrument.
Her fingers were still loose from her earlier practice in the nursery, and so she felt content to let her mind wander as she began to play. Like most young ladies of the genteel persuasion she had gone to some trouble to prepare a portfolio of pieces which might run fluidly under the stream of conversation, both charming and soothing the visiting gentility.
Georgiana was not quite sure if her aunt truly was genteel; she appeared to have little interest in the music itself. Rather, she commented at length upon the strength of her fingers, the quality of the instrument, the coast from which the ivory had been procured and finally, turning to one of her matronly companions, a piercing interrogation of that woman's family interests in the common practice of trade. Naturally, her companion was at a loss for words at her own humble beginnings, even if they were now several generations removed from her own position in society. Georgiana made herself appear serene, and continued to play unheeded.
Her portfolio was composed of simple works which she might ornament as she chose, and some of the songs which had become popular in the London season. Without anyone standing close by to turn her pages, and thus discomfort her by their presence, Georgiana slipped from one song to the next without any real thought, and let the lyrics embrace her tongue.
One in particular made her fingers slow (heedless of her governess' training that to linger on ones cadences was perfectly vulgar habit only practiced on the continent). She hummed it through a few times, and then softly sang:
Think not, dear love, that I'll reveal
the hours of pleasure we two steal...
The words were by Carew; Wickham had told her that in his laughing way, when first he heard her sing it. He had lit upon her score with alacrity, near to dancing despite the minor mode the piece was set to.
"Sweet song, little bird!" He had declared, and then he had leaned closer and employed the pompous voice he had adopted since his time in the university. "But what think you of its meaning?"
She had frowned at the score, which seemed easy enough to her innocent eye. Her heart raced a little when she was near him, and she laughed too loudly and blushed with scant regard for decorum, and she knew that these things would be apparent to his more worldly eye. "Why, it means when we speak in the hallway, or chance upon one another in the garden..."
"Or loiter beside the piano?" He finished, lounging against the instrument. Seeing her bow of agreement, he hid a smile and gestured at the keys. "Then please, continue to bring me such pleasure."
"I think you tease me," she had replied, but had obediently returned to the music.
No eye shall see nor yet the sun discry what thee and I have done.
The god of love himself, whose dart did first pierce mine and next thy heart,
He shall not know that we can tell what sweets in stol'n embracements dwell.
"Ah! Now there's the blush your brother would be relieved to espy." Wickham declared, with a cruel note in his voice. Georgiana coloured and found that she could not meet his gaze, whatever humour might be lurking within.
"It speaks only of love, and modest Christian love at that." She informed her shaking fingertips, as if to beseech them to be still. "A wife might sing this to her husband without reproof."
"And yet a maiden cannot even discuss it with her oldest friend without crimson blooming in her cheek!" he exclaimed, and to Georgiana's shock she felt his fingers raising her chin gently.
She shut her eyes, and for a moment was torn in an agony of the unknown. She did not know what she expected, or what she wanted to do, or how she might respond without giving offence, and before she could truly consider all of the options he removed his hand and she had no reason to react at all.
"I apologise, Miss Darcy." He said with a touch of formality, "It pains me to see you discomforted. I only thought you might consider the meaning in the words you sing so prettily for your suitors each night."
"To what end, sir?" She could not meet his gaze, but there was a challenge in her words at least. She heard the smile in his answer.
"To improve your performance, perhaps?"
"In music?"
"In many things." He raised her hand to kiss it, raising his eyebrow at how icy her fingers felt in his own, warm palm, and then he was gone.
Georgiana played very badly for the rest of the night, and it was a long time before she dared to sing in Wickham's presence again. When she finally did, of course, he told her...
"Georgiana!" The voice was loud, striking and unmistakably nasal. Georgiana wrenched herself away from her memory to find that her fingers had grown quite still, and her breath was too quick to summon a melody from her lips. Her aunt was looking to her most severely, but she knew she must have ended the song, for she had left no music incomplete since she was a child.
"I am sorry, aunt," She whispered, hiding her waxen hands under the lace of her skirt. "I feel unwell."