Page 81 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
The hall was crossed with sunbeams that illuminated the statues. The paintings were on the south wall, well lit but protected from fading. Everywhere I looked, subtle details emerged. Perfectly fit granite. Burnished birch in the arms of a simple chair.
Mrs. Reynolds was showing a collection of miniatures, each a carefully drawn portrait on a hand-sized oval.
“And that,” Mrs. Reynolds said, pointing to one, “is my master—and very like him.”
“It is a handsome face,” my aunt said, examining the picture. “But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like him or not.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked at me with increased respect. “Does the young lady know Mr. Darcy?”
I felt my face warming. “A little.”
“And do you not think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”
“Yes, very handsome.” I prepared to burst into flame.
“And who is this girl?” asked my aunt, raising another portrait.
“Ah. That is Miss Darcy, when she was eight years old. She lost her father and mother three years after that was painted. It makes my heart break even now to think of it.” Mrs. Reynolds paused, her eyes glistening. “She is sixteen now and has grown into a wonderful lady.”
“I have heard she plays the pianoforte,” I said.
Mrs. Reynolds laughed a strange, unguarded laugh as if I had spoken both a painful truth and the most naïve idiocy in one breath.
Wordlessly, she walked down the hall. We filed behind her in silence.
We reached a pair of wide mahogany doors carved with a motif of musical clefs. For the first time, I saw another servant. A little housemaid was bent, polishing the door handles.
The housekeeper said, “The music parlor.” She gestured to the maid, who opened the doors wide. We gasped.
The room was on the back of the house, so we faced up the hill, peering into old forest.
The entire north wall was windows.
I had toured an orangery in London that boasted a wall half-filled with windows. That was a token compared to this. Here, the narrowest frames separated endless panes of perfect, polished glass. Gnarled, towering oaks rose in majesty beyond.
My eyes followed the branches upward, unobstructed. The windows continued for half the roof. The entire hill enveloped us in ageless woods until the sky broke in brilliant blue.
“It is a new method,” Mrs. Reynolds said, who had walked to the far wall. She tapped the glass with her knuckle. “Two layers, with a gap between. My master hired artisans from Scotland. They said there is no installation like this in the world. There may not be another for decades.”
I walked over. I could discern a faint, second reflection of myself. “Why two layers?”
“There was a requirement for the instruments.” Mrs. Reynolds’s lips crinkled. “An issue with temperature.”
“It is like layers of clothing,” I said, realizing. “To keep out cold and heat.”
“Yes. Very good, ma’am. That is precisely as Mr. Darcy described it.” Mrs. Reynolds gave me an appraising look as if I might hold further secrets. Little did she know.
But I had ignored the purpose of the room. I turned. And counted. “Sevenpianofortes?” Two large instruments were in the center of the room, surrounded by comfortable chairs, settees, and end tables. The other instruments were arrayed along the side walls.
“Eight,” our guide corrected, indicating a large crate in the corner, by which the little maid was standing, her head lowered. “This one is newly arrived for Miss Darcy—a present from my master.”
“Eight seems extravagant,” I said. For the first time, my dislike for the privilege of wealth stirred. It had been happily silent until now.
“Your pardon, ma’am. Miss Darcy would not stand for anything wasteful. She keeps two instruments here, and another in her room. These others are sent by the great pianoforte builders, and they will be returned when she has provided her opinion of their work.”
My aunt was surprised. “They ask the opinion of a lady of sixteen?”
The housekeeper smiled proudly.
