Page 85 of The Slipper Scandal
He watched until the carriage disappeared into the London night, then returned to the house to face his relations, who had gathered in the entrance hall with expressions ranging from Milton's unrepentant grin to Lady Matlock's serene satisfaction.
"I trust you are all pleased with yourselves," he said drily, though without real anger. "Never in the course of human history has a man been so thoroughly prevented from conversing with the woman he wishes to wed."
"You must admit, you made more progress in those last few moments than in weeks of conversation," Fitzwilliam observed. "Sometimes a man needs to be saved from his own excessive caution. You could not speak to her in words, so you were forced to find another way. As much as I dislike admitting it, Mother was correct. She was sure you would turn to your music."
“Might have overdone it,” Milton said, laconically checking his perfectly buffed nails. “Half the women in the room are now madly in love with you. And not all of them are unmarried.”
His uncle and Fitzwilliam laughed at that. His aunt just cast her eyes upward as if asking for strength.
"Simply allow her the night to think on what she has heard," Aunt Matlock said, patting his hand. "I believe you will find her quite willing to speak with you tomorrow."
Darcy was beyond irritated with his family. But Elizabeth's response to his music, the welcome in her eyes, the subtle but unmistakable shift in her manner towards him . . . perhaps it had turned out well after all.
"I have already told Miss Bennet I will call on her tomorrow," he said instead. "Alone. Without family assistance."
"An excellent plan," his aunt agreed.
“Though should you require our help . . .” Milton allowed the sentence to trail away.
"I most emphatically do not," Darcy interrupted firmly. "Any further 'help' may well drive me to consider rather drastic measures."
His family's laughter followed him into the night as he took his leave, his frustration fading as he contemplated the promise of tomorrow's visit. With a lightness of spirit he had rarely experienced, Darcy entered his carriage, already composing what he would say to Elizabeth when they finally had the chance. He would assure her that his love was true, and that whether it was his family or hers behaving badly, that would never change.
Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The morning after Lady Spencer’s musical evening, Elizabeth sat at the Abernathys’ breakfast table, tea in hand, her thoughts returning to Mr. Darcy’s violin performance. The music had startled her with its poignancy, its aching solitude. Was this the same man who had announced their engagement without so much as a conversation and had insulted her looks in the park?
Yes.
In those raw, expressive notes, he had revealed a part of himself she had not seen before. Although the room had been full, she knew he had been speaking to her.
Perhaps she would know her own mind before Mamma appeared after all.
"You seem lost in thought this morning, Elizabeth," Mrs. Abernathy observed, spreading a thin layer of marmalade on her toast. "I trust you enjoyed last evening?"
"Very much," Elizabeth replied, feeling a blush warm her cheeks.
"Mr. Darcy's performance was certainly unexpected," Mr. Abernathy commented, peering over his newspaper. "Who would have thought the man possessed the same talent for music that his mother was purported to have?"
Elizabeth murmured a response and absently stirred her tea. How was one to remain unaffected by a man who could express so much without uttering a word? She had been convinced that whatever bond she and Mr. Darcy shared had been forged only under duress. But now . . .
She was still considering this, hoping that when Mr. Darcy arrived for his visit this morning that they might finally talk. She felt an uncharacteristic flutter of anticipation, what she might say to Mr. Darcy and he to her, when a voice in the hall stopped her mid-thought.
Elizabeth froze, her cup suspended halfway to her lips. Loud, cheerful, and somehow also aggrieved, the voice rolled through the house like a gust of icy wind. “No," she whispered, a sudden sickly dread settling in the pit of her stomach. "Not already."
"Where is my Lizzy? I must see her at once!"
The door to the dining room burst open, and her mother swept in before Wilson like an advancing storm front, her bonnet askew and her cheeks flushed with excitement. She was still wearing her traveling clothes. It was barely ten o’clock. She must have left Longbourn when it was yet dark outside.
"Oh, Lizzy! My dearest girl!" she exclaimed, rushing towards Elizabeth with arms outstretched. "I simply could not wait another moment!" She turned to the Abernathys with a cursory curtsy. "Mr. Abernathy, Mrs. Abernathy, you must forgive this early intrusion, but a mother's heart, you understand."
Elizabeth rose to greet her mother, mortification already beginning to colour her cheeks. "Mamma, we did not expect you so soon. Did you not receive Mrs. Abernathy's letter suggesting you delay your journey until next week?"
"Letter? Oh, I travelled halfway to London yesterday, my dear, before the coachman said it was too dark to continue. I was not at Longbourn to receive any post.”
“But your letter said you were there . . .”
