Page 90 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“I will play also,” Miss Darcy said, taking my arm. “But you first! My brother says you sing delightfully.”
“I do not!” I protested.
“Mr. Darcy has good taste,” she said as if that settled it.
She led us through the house with distressing efficiency. Outside, the warmth of sunset had cooled to violet dusk. A housemaid walked ahead lighting wall-mounted sconces. Another trailed, cranking chains to lower the wide chandeliers for lighting.
The Gardiners’ tyke padded beside me but drifted to examine each marble statue we passed. For an animal I imagined as puppy-like, he behaved differently than a dog—peering at the shapes, not sniffing for scents.
Miss Darcy swung open the doors to the music parlor. She smiled enthusiastically while the maid lit the fire and candles. “I feel we have become friends, Miss Bennet. Please allow me to hear you sing.”
I was trapped now. Accepting the inevitable, I leafed through the thick, if untidy, stack of music she plucked off an instrument and found an Italian air I knew tolerably well.
I played and sang, trying not to wince when my fingers struck the wrong note. The instrument was superb, flawlessly tuned, and much larger—and louder—than I was accustomed to.
Miss Darcy wandered while I played, listening attentively. Mr. Darcy watched us both, but he was tense when his eyes followed his sister. He wasnervous about her opinion. Strangely, that relaxed me. Miss Darcy had been so sweet that I could not be concerned over her.
When I finished, Miss Darcy clapped with delight. “That was lovely! Fitz is right. You have a charming voice. Very natural.”
I laughed. “If by natural, you mean untutored, I will agree.”
“I do,” she said. “But that is perfect for an air. Most are from folk music, after all.” Her gaze shifted to my fingers resting on the keys. There was a pause. “Perhaps a duet next time? I could play while you sing.”
“That would be most welcome,” I said with heartfelt sincerity. “Will you play now?”
“All right,” she said and took my place at the instrument.
I was curious to hear her perform after so many comments on her skill. But even more, I was intrigued by her manner in the presence of her instruments. It was like a flower had opened. Her reserve had lessened throughout our visit, but here she was confident. Almost exuberant. Yet there was no hint of the pretension or self-promotion that marred many accomplished ladies.
Without thinking, I stood next to Mr. Darcy.
“This is everything to Georgiana,” he said softly. “I very much wished you to see.” That left me flustered, and I did not look at him.
Miss Darcy’s head was cocked, considering. I noticed she did not consult the stack of music.
“Perhaps another air?” she said.
“No,” Mr. Darcy said. “Beethoven. Play the Appassionata. The last movement.”
Her smile faded, and her gaze flicked to me before returning to her brother. “Are you sure?”
“I am,” was all he said.
She rose and went to the side of the instrument, which was at least six feet long, and with astounding casualness heaved the heavy lid open, then propped it up with a stick. I had never seen such a thing.
She returned to her seat, her hands in her lap and her face lost in thought. In her red dress, closely fitted even through her sleeves, she looked like a waif beside the huge instrument.
Her hands rose, then pounded into the keys. Chords rang out, strident and dissonant, a desperate cry. The room reverberated as if a natural force was unleashed. Thunder and gale.
I knew the music.
I had heard it practiced on our simple instrument at Longbourn. I had heard it performed once, desperately, when Mary threw it in the face of our society at Netherfield before she was mocked by my own father. A performance Mr. Darcy had also heard.
But for all that the emotion and pain were the same, it had been nothing like this. This was knives of sound that cut, agony and ecstasy in turns, triumphant and terrible, brooding and breathtaking, accelerating endlessly as if the world had no limits on speed, or power, or freedom.
The music turned lyric, and Miss Darcy’s lithe form swayed, her eyes closed while her hands danced over the keys. The volume grew, and she threw herself at the instrument. Her scarlet and gold robe twisted like a roaring flame against the mahogany frame and the white and black of the keys.
The final chords soared. The room fell silent.
