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CHAPTER THREE

T he following days were filled with dress mending and glove finding and shoe assessing, for the girls were not careful with their clothes, and their finances were limited enough that new items could not be procured for every event.

And while Elizabeth enjoyed some of it, she preferred to escape for walks or time to read, and more importantly, looked most forward to tea at the Philipses’ with the soldiers.

When Elizabeth and her sisters arrived at her aunt and uncle’s, Mr Denny and Mr Wickham were already ensconced in the sitting room, a room which was too dark for Elizabeth’s taste: dark red velvet curtains, low carved ceilings, and paintings of a severe hue covering up every bit of the dark wood panelled walls.

Some considered it intimate, but she favoured the more fashionable paler colours and higher ceilings.

Despite their surroundings, the mood was light and the food, as ever, was good. Her aunt and uncle sometimes vexed her, but they did serve consistently delicious treats.

They were a lively group, large enough to keep the conversation active but small enough that no one broke apart into separate discussions.

They spoke of the weather, and of a new opera in London all had heard of but none had seen, and of the distant war, though that subject was quickly deemed too upsetting for the ladies, so the subject of a forthcoming assembly was broached.

Musings about who might be there and which gowns would be worn and who might dance with whom kept them busy for some time until what music would be played was discussed, at which point Aunt Philips clapped her hands together and declared, “My nieces, you must play for our new friends.” Her hand swept to the pianoforte, carefully placed by the window at such an angle that the player could be admired as much as the view of the distant hills.

Kitty leapt up first, anxious to play The Sussex Waltz , which she had recently perfected. It was lovely and soothing, and set Elizabeth to dreaming of dancing with a man’s arms about her. Mr Wickham’s? She flushed at the thought even as she glanced towards him.

Lydia skipped to the bench when her older sister was finished to play a jig that had them all clapping along.

At its conclusion, Lydia gave a single elaborate curtsey, her head tilted just so at the gentlemen.

Elizabeth shook her head. It was astonishing that at such a young age her sister knew how to move and flirt.

Did Lydia and Kitty practise such flirtations in their room?

Elizabeth suspected they did. Practise or no, there was a comprehension that Elizabeth believed the girls, or at least Lydia, might be born with.

Their middle sister, Mary, did not know how to move in such a fashion, and truly, neither did Elizabeth. Not with such finesse.

“Now you, Lizzy,” Aunt Philips called to her.

Elizabeth demurred instantly. “I fear I have not practised in ages. I ought not to exhibit my fudges and slurs for your party.”

“Lizzy, you must,” her aunt said.

Considering her options of an ongoing argument or playing with errors, Elizabeth decided that simply agreeing was best. She rose and walked to the pianoforte, pulled the bench closer while wondering what to play, and lifted her hands, resting her fingers gingerly on the keys.

Mama’s instructions came back to her, as if she was seven years old again, pushing her tongue into the space where a front tooth had just fallen out.

She could hear her mother’s voice saying, “Lizzy, your third finger comes up and over to play E. Up and over!” Mama was a spirited teacher, and though Jane and Mary excelled, Elizabeth could never quite master their smooth movements, and would get stuck or tangled or both.

She did practise. Or she started. But then the birds would be chirping, the sun would be shining, and the hills would beckon her to ramble, and before she knew it, she had slipped out the back door and into the fresh air.

Now, however, she wished she had been more disciplined, for once again she was called upon to display a talent she did not possess as fully as desired.

The ability to wend one’s way through a dense wood did not seem to be a talent in as much demand as a perfectly played tune, not for a lady in any case.

Her fingers tapped away and the tune, Boccherini’s String Quartet in E , came alive.

It reminded her of dancing around the sitting room when her sisters and she were far younger, dreaming of putting on their finest gowns and attending balls.

In some ways, balls were more than she could have dreamed, and in some ways more painful.

The pressure to meet the right man dampened the pleasure, but she did adore dancing and, if she admitted it, the possibility of scandal—someone else’s scandal, of course.

Her fingers slipped, and she reprimanded herself for being so distractable, though mercifully the piece was nearly at a close.

When she finished, all applauded, and Mr Wickham called out, “That was marvellous.”

She shook her head. “Passable at best—certainly not marvellous.”

A smile played at his lips. “Miss Elizabeth, perfection is not needed to enjoy a thing. Too many people wait for all to be just so and in so doing miss the pleasures of life.”

Elizabeth’s heart quickened as she noted the sparkle in his eyes. What other man had she met that was so lively? That made her feel so alive?

Her aunt chided, “You do yourself too little credit, Lizzy. It was lovely.”

Kitty rose to partake of more sweets, and Lydia followed. Another day, Elizabeth might have left the piano bench to scold them, saying they had had enough, but Mr Wickham’s gaze on her was enthralling.

He rose and crossed the room, stopping at the side of the pianoforte and resting his hand casually on the polished wood. “I wonder, Miss Elizabeth, if I might persuade you to a duet?”

When she nodded, he reached for the stack of music, and in doing so, brushed her shoulder just the slightest, sending a shiver through her.

She ought to have asked him to step away, but she did not desire that.

She desired… What? A kiss? That he declare his ardent love for her this very moment?

Foolishness. Again, her cheeks heated almost as if she imagined him knowing her thoughts.

He remained close as he flipped through the music sheets.

This was too bold, too familiar. Her aunt or uncle should intervene, should they not?

Yet as she looked to them, their faces were placid, as was Mr Denny’s.

A man and a woman playing a duet in front of company was not unheard of nor was it untoward, so why was she concerned?

Because they did not know how her heart raced, and her body tingled, as a result of Mr Wickham’s nearness.

“Ah! This one!” he said. “I adore this tune.”

He held the song sheet close to her, and she could feel his breath upon the skin of her neck.

“Forgive me, sir, I-I do not know it, and my abilities are not such that I can play by sight.”

“That is a shame.” He sat beside her and reached for the keys.

“I know a different one. Let’s see…” He gazed up at the ceiling as if the notes might be transcribed there.

Then he cleared his throat, looked out over his audience—which by this time had dissolved into their own conversations—and sang as he played.

This world, they say, is a world of woe,

But that I do deny,

Can sorrow from the goblet flow,

Or pain from beauty’s eye?

The wise are fools with all their rules,

When they would joy control;

If life’s a pain, I say again,

Let’s drown it in the bowl.

She lifted her eyebrows, fighting back a laugh. “An interesting song. One perhaps better for a gathering of officers.”

He smiled and offered a nod, and she noted Mr Denny across the room smirking while shaking his head.

She wanted Mr Wickham to remain at her side. “Sir, there is one I know. Could you play A Patriot’s Waltz ?”

“I can play anything with the proper encouragement.” He winked, which sent another shiver through her.

They played, and though they hit many wrong notes, they laughed and continued on, and she thought it was perfection. How freeing to be with someone unconcerned with the right tune and the right notes and the right way to behave!

This man was wonderful or dangerous. She could not tell which.