Page 22 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)
Chapter Nine
Darcy surveyed the Matlocks’ music room with the wary attention of a man accustomed to assessing both people and situations.
Elegant candelabra cast warm light over the assembled company, glinting off jewels and silken gowns while illuminating faces both familiar and newly introduced.
Though smaller than many of the grand entertainments already attended this Season, Lady Matlock’s musical evening had drawn a select gathering of genuine music lovers, something Darcy appreciated far more than the crushing crowds of larger assemblies.
His gaze, however, repeatedly turned to where Georgiana sat near the pianoforte, her fingers smoothing invisible wrinkles from her pale lavender gown as Mr. Townend quietly arranged their sheet music.
“Your sister appears somewhat nervous,” Elizabeth murmured, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Though considerably less so than she might have been even six months ago.”
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed, feeling a mixture of pride and concern as he observed Georgiana’s expression. Though her cheeks were flushed with anticipation, she maintained a composure that spoke of growing confidence. “She has progressed remarkably since you entered our lives.”
Elizabeth smiled, the gentle pressure of her fingers on his arm conveying both acknowledgment and affection. “The credit belongs to Georgiana herself. She merely needed encouragement to trust her own abilities.”
Lady Matlock approached, her hostess duties complete for the moment, her elegant gown rustling softly as she took her place beside them. “Georgiana and Mr. Townend are to perform first,” she informed them. “I believe we are in for a genuine treat; they are both exceptionally gifted musicians.”
Darcy nodded, watching as Mr. Townend bent to speak quietly with Georgiana, his manner showing none of the social awkwardness that typically characterised his interactions outside of musical contexts.
The man’s entire demeanour transformed when music was the subject, his movements becoming assured and confident, his expression focused with an intensity that Darcy reluctantly admired.
“What will they be playing?” Elizabeth enquired.
“A Mozart sonata for violin and pianoforte,” Lady Matlock replied. “K.304 in E minor, I believe. Rather melancholy, but beautifully suited to showcase both instruments in conversation with each other.”
Lord Matlock joined them. “Shandly appears to be preparing for something theatrical,” he remarked, nodding toward where the viscount stood consulting a small book with Kitty at his side.
“I do hope it is not another spontaneous recitation. The last one at Lady Jersey’s soirée nearly caused old General Witherington to choke on his sherry. ”
Darcy repressed a sigh. The viscount’s dramatic performances were becoming legendary in London drawing rooms, a fact that seemed to encourage rather than discourage the young man’s enthusiasm for public displays.
Yet Kitty appeared genuinely entertained by these antics, her face alight with amusement as the viscount gestured emphatically while explaining something in his book.
Any further observations were curtailed as Lady Matlock announced the first performance of the evening. A respectful hush fell over the gathering as Georgiana straightened her posture at the pianoforte, while Mr. Townend raised his violin to his shoulder.
For a brief moment, they seemed to communicate without words, a shared glance establishing the precise moment to begin. Then Georgiana’s fingers touched the keys with deliberate gentleness, drawing forth the opening notes of Mozart’s melancholy theme.
The sound filled the room with exquisite clarity, a deceptively simple melody that nonetheless conveyed profound emotion.
After several bars, Mr. Townend’s violin entered, the plaintive notes blending seamlessly with the pianoforte’s steady accompaniment.
Darcy felt a surprising tightness in his throat as he watched his sister’s complete absorption in the music, her usual self-consciousness entirely forgotten as she responded to each nuance of Mr. Townend’s playing.
“They complement each other remarkably well,” Elizabeth whispered, echoing his thoughts with her usual perceptiveness.
It was true. Though they had been practising together for only a short time, they performed with the intuitive understanding of musicians who could anticipate each other’s interpretive choices.
When Mr. Townend introduced subtle variations in tempo or emphasis, Georgiana adjusted her playing with natural responsiveness, neither dominating nor merely following but truly conversing through Mozart’s carefully structured dialogue.
As the piece progressed into its more technically demanding passages, Darcy observed a subtle transformation in his sister.
The hesitant young woman who had once approached every social interaction with trepidation had disappeared, replaced by a musician of genuine sensitivity and growing confidence.
Her technical precision remained flawless, but it was now infused with an expressiveness that he suspected owed much to Mr. Townend’s influence.
The final notes lingered in the air, fading to a silence that seemed almost reverential before enthusiastic applause broke the spell. Georgiana’s face flushed with genuine pleasure as she acknowledged the appreciation with a shy smile, while Mr. Townend bowed with uncharacteristic grace.
“Magnificent,” Lord Matlock declared, his usual reserve softening into genuine admiration. “Georgiana has always played beautifully, but tonight there was something quite extraordinary in her performance.”
“She is coming into her own,” Elizabeth observed quietly, her eyes meeting Darcy’s with shared understanding.
Before Darcy could respond, however, Viscount Shandly stepped forward with theatrical determination, clearly prepared to seize the moment before another performer could be announced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed with a flourish that immediately drew all eyes toward him, “inspired by the sublime musical offering we have just witnessed, I feel compelled to share a piece of Italian poetry that captures the essence of artistic passion. With your permission, Lady Matlock?”
Lady Matlock, though Darcy detected a flicker of resignation in her expression, inclined her head graciously. “Of course, Lord Shandly. We are all most eager to hear your recitation.”
The viscount beamed, producing a small volume bound in red morocco leather with dramatic flair.
“During my sojourn in Florence,” he began, his voice pitched to carry throughout the room, “I had the great fortune to discover the works of Giacomo Leopardi, perhaps the most sublime lyric poet of the Italian romantic tradition.”
Darcy noticed a subtle shift in attention across the room, particularly from an elegant lady seated near the window whom he recognised as the Contessa Bertolini, an Italian noblewoman currently visiting London. Her perfectly arched eyebrow suggested polite scepticism rather than anticipation.
Undeterred by any doubting expressions, the viscount opened his volume with a dramatic gesture and began to recite, his voice taking on what he clearly believed to be an authentic Italian accent.
“ La donzella che viene dalla montagna, con il cuore pieno di sole e la mente piena di sogni, cerca l’amore tra le stelle cadenti della notte Toscana! ”
His pronunciation, to Darcy’s admittedly untrained ear, seemed oddly constructed, emphasising random syllables and rolling his ‘r’s with excessive enthusiasm.
Kitty, seated nearby, pressed her lips together in what appeared to be a valiant effort to contain inappropriate laughter, though her eyes sparkled with undisguised amusement.
The viscount continued with increasing passion, gesturing broadly as he declared something about moonlight and eternal devotion, each phrase delivered with greater dramatic intensity than the last. Several of the assembled guests exchanged glances of polite bewilderment, while others maintained expressions of fixed attention that suggested they were mentally elsewhere.
It was the subtle clearing of the Contessa Bertolini’s throat that finally interrupted the performance. “Forgive me, Lord Shandly,” she said, her English perfect though delicately accented, “but I believe you may have been misinformed about the authorship of this particular poem.”
The viscount paused, his expression momentarily disconcerted before recovering his confidence. “I assure you, my lady, this is authentic Leopardi. I acquired this volume from a most respected bookseller in Florence.”
“How fascinating,” the contessa replied with diplomatic courtesy.
“Because these verses bear a remarkable resemblance to a rather popular tourist souvenir sold in Florence, containing poems written by local students in a deliberately antiquated style. They are charming, certainly, but not Leopardi, whose work I have studied extensively.”
A ripple of barely suppressed amusement passed through the room, though most guests maintained admirable composure. Kitty, however, could no longer conceal her mirth, a soft laugh escaping before she quickly disguised it as a cough.
“Ah, well,” the viscount declared, recovering with remarkable resilience, “the poetry of Italy speaks with many voices! Perhaps this unknown genius will one day be recognised alongside Leopardi and Dante as a master of the form.”
“Perhaps,” the contessa conceded with gracious forbearance. “And perhaps you might endeavour to practice your pronunciation in my language as well, young man. There were a few…” she made a delicate little moue of distress, “moment where the meaning was somewhat overshadowed by the delivery.”
The viscount bowed with good-natured acknowledgment. “Your expertise is most illuminating, my lady. I shall endeavour to improve my education in classical Italian poetry, inspired by your gracious self.”