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Chapter Seven

The sound of laughter mingled with pianoforte notes drifted through the morning stillness of Pemberley’s corridors.

Darcy paused mid-stride, the letter in his hand momentarily forgotten.

His sister’s laughter was not a sound one heard often within these walls, and in recent months, it had become rarer still.

But since Elizabeth’s arrival, Georgiana’s quiet demeanour had begun to give way to something altogether more animated.

The correspondence from his steward could wait.

These fleeting moments of Georgiana’s happiness were far more precious than reports of tenant improvements or quarterly accounts.

In the months following the Ramsgate affair, he had watched his sister retreat further into herself, her natural shyness calcifying into something more concerning.

Even her beloved music had become a solitary pursuit, practised with technical perfection but little joy.

Until Elizabeth.

Darcy approached the partially open door with quiet steps, not wishing to announce his presence and risk shattering the delicate spell that seemed to have been cast over the music room.

The morning sun poured through the tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden light that burnished Elizabeth’s dark curls as she sat beside Georgiana at the pianoforte.

Their heads were bent together over the sheet music, shoulders nearly touching, four hands poised above the keys.

“Now, we shall try once more,” Elizabeth was saying, her voice warm with encouragement rather than instruction. “And should we stumble again, we shall simply declare it an artistic interpretation.”

Georgiana’s responding smile transformed her countenance entirely. Darcy watched, transfixed, as his sister’s features relaxed into an expression of genuine pleasure. She looked younger, unburdened by the weight of expectations and past mistakes that he knew she carried.

“I fear my artistic interpretations may test even your generous nature, sister,” Georgiana replied, with a hint of self-deprecation that was somehow different from her usual self-doubt. There was a playfulness to it that Darcy had not heard in far too long.

“Nonsense. Mozart himself would be charmed by your playing,” Elizabeth declared. “Though perhaps a little scandalised by our tempo. Shall we begin?”

They commenced the duet, a lively piece that required both precision and coordination.

Darcy observed the contrast in their styles: Georgiana’s technically flawless execution complemented by Elizabeth’s spirited interpretation.

His betrothed played with feeling rather than strict adherence to notation, her fingers dancing across the keys with confident imprecision that somehow enhanced rather than detracted from the piece.

What struck him most, however, was how closely Georgiana watched Elizabeth from the corner of her eye. Not with the anxiety of one fearful of making a mistake, but with fascination, as though studying a new and intriguing approach to an art form she had previously considered only in one dimension.

When they reached a particularly challenging passage, Elizabeth’s fingers faltered slightly, and she let out a small, theatrical gasp. “Oh dear, I believe I’ve led us astray.”

Rather than withdrawing in embarrassment as she might have done mere weeks ago, Georgiana giggled. “Perhaps we should declare that an artistic interpretation as well?”

“Most definitely,” Elizabeth agreed with mock seriousness. “In fact, I think it an improvement. Mozart was altogether too predictable in this section.”

They dissolved into laughter together, Georgiana’s usually restrained expression alight with mirth.

The sound filled the high-ceilinged room, and Darcy felt something within his chest expand in response.

How long had he waited to see his sister thus?

How many hours had he spent contemplating what might restore her spirits after Wickham’s cruel manipulation?

The answer, it seemed, had been Elizabeth.

Not his wealth or Pemberley’s grandeur or even his own devoted attention had accomplished what this woman had achieved in mere days.

He had known Elizabeth would make him happy, but he had not fully anticipated how her presence would transform his entire household.

As if sensing his thoughts, Elizabeth glanced up and caught his eye.

For a moment, they simply regarded one another across the sunlit room, and Darcy marvelled at how her expression softened upon seeing him.

That look, so warm, intimate and gently teasing, was still new enough to catch him unawares, even though almost a week had passed since they had come to their new understanding and begun to share a bedroom.

“Mr. Darcy,” she called, breaking the spell, “how long have you been lurking in doorways, sir? Is this a habit we must address?”

Georgiana turned, startled by his presence, but her surprise quickly gave way to a smile. There was no tension in her posture, no anxious glance between her brother and her new friend.

“I apologise for the intrusion,” he said, stepping fully into the room. “I was merely appreciating the superior musicianship.”

“Even the artistic interpretations?” Elizabeth countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Darcy felt the familiar tightness that often afflicted him in social situations – the instinct to maintain proper dignity, to respond with formal correctness. But Elizabeth’s gaze held challenge and affection in equal measure, and he found himself wanting to meet her halfway.

“Especially those,” he replied, allowing a small smile to curve his lips. “Though I confess I am no authority on music. I believe my praise may be somewhat biased where the performers are concerned.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, clearly pleased by his willingness to engage in her light-hearted banter. “Bias in musical appreciation? For shame, Mr. Darcy. And here I thought you a man of the strictest impartiality.”

“I fear my reputation for impartiality has been greatly exaggerated,” he said, moving further into the room. “I am discovering a marked preference for particular company that quite colours my judgment.”

“Will you join us, brother?” Georgiana asked. “Elizabeth has been teaching me this new duet, but perhaps you might like to try?”

“I did not know you played, Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “What other skills have you been hiding from me?”

“I have not played in years,” he said with a chuckle. “I fear my efforts may inspire more laughter than admiration.”

“All the better,” Elizabeth declared. “A morning without laughter is hardly worth acknowledging. Come, Mr. Darcy, show us if your fingers are as nimble as your wit.”

Georgiana was staring at Darcy with an expression he had not witnessed in years, a mixture of astonishment and delight that transported him momentarily to her childhood, before society’s expectations and Wickham’s betrayal had taught her caution.

It occurred to him that his sister had rarely, if ever, seen him engaged in such light-hearted exchanges.

Had he truly been so solemn in her presence all these years? The thought was not a comfortable one.

“Brother, I do not believe I have ever heard you admit to a lack of skill at anything,” Georgiana said, her voice carrying a note of wonder. She glanced quickly at Elizabeth, as though seeking confirmation that this extraordinary occurrence was indeed taking place.

Elizabeth, perceiving her bewilderment, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Georgiana, I must inform you that your brother has been hiding his true nature from you most cruelly. Why, in Hertfordshire, he confessed to being a poor dancer despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“Did he indeed?” Georgiana’s eyes widened, her gaze darting between them with increasing animation.

“I merely acknowledged that I lack the easy conversation that makes one truly accomplished in a ballroom,” Darcy protested, though without the defensiveness that might once have accompanied such a claim.

“And yet you danced with me at Netherfield,” Elizabeth countered, “despite the peril of my inferior connections and your own reluctance to recommend yourself to strangers.”

Georgiana gasped softly at Elizabeth’s forthrightness, but her expression held fascination rather than shock. Darcy watched as his sister leaned forward slightly, clearly invested in this revealing glimpse into their courtship.

“I assure you,” Elizabeth continued, deliberately drawing Georgiana deeper into their exchange, “your brother’s transformation has been nothing short of remarkable. When first we met, he declared me merely tolerable, and certainly not handsome enough to tempt him.”

“Brother!” Georgiana exclaimed in horror, momentarily forgetting her habitual reserve. “You did not!”

Darcy felt a warmth creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the morning sun streaming through the windows. “I find my memory of that particular evening somewhat less precise than Elizabeth’s.”

“Oh, I assure you, sir, my recollection is impeccable,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I believe those were your exact words. Though in fairness, you had no notion I could hear you.”

“How mortifying,” Georgiana murmured, though her lips trembled with suppressed laughter.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed solemnly. “I was quite determined to dislike him thoroughly after such a slight.”

Darcy observed with quiet amazement how Elizabeth modulated her approach to encourage Georgiana’s participation without overwhelming her.

She asked questions that invited response rather than demanded it, allowed comfortable silences when needed, and maintained a warmth that gradually coaxed his sister from her shell.

“And yet here you are,” Georgiana said, with unexpected boldness, “so I must assume my brother both revised his opinion about your handsomeness and found some way to redeem himself.”