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CHAPTER FIVE

A fter the much-commented upon and quickly consumed tarts, Elizabeth made for home amid promises made for another visit soon.

Upon Elizabeth’s arrival to Longbourn, she was surprised to find guests at tea. Mr Bingley, his elegant sister, and Mr Darcy! The very man who had refused an introduction!

The guests were ensconced in the parlour with her entire family fluttering about them.

The men rose in greeting, and Elizabeth curtseyed.

Her father said, “Lizzy, I know you are acquainted with Mr Bingley and Miss Bingley.”

Elizabeth nodded. She curtseyed to the open-faced Mr Bingley and smiled, then she and Miss Bingley curtseyed to one another.

Elizabeth, noting the blankness of her expression, wondered whether Miss Bingley was dull, or was masterful at hiding emotion.

Given her brother’s liveliness, Elizabeth suspected the latter.

Her father then said, “May I present their friend, Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth nodded and curtseyed to Mr Darcy who bowed and looked at her as if he had something to say, but instead tightened his lips.

Elizabeth was drawn into the mystery of his reserve.

Some men were aloof due to snobbery, while others were disinterested in anything but a game of pursuit that might end in the ruination of a young lady.

Though she and Mr Darcy had only had that single—and singular—interaction, he did not strike her as either of those sorts of men. What was he about?

“Mary,” her father announced, “was about to play for us.”

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. Why would her family allow such a thing in front of new acquaintances?

Elizabeth asked for some tea, hoping that distraction might delay or cancel the display, or at least give her something on which to focus during the music as she attended to sugar and cream and a spoon to stir and stir.

“Did Jane already play?” asked Elizabeth, and her father affirmed. She turned to the guests. “Jane practises daily. We do so enjoy hearing it. The discipline it takes to become proficient is impressive.” Why was she speaking so when she ought to be silent?

Her heart was pounding, and she wanted nothing more than to rush towards the piano bench where Mary was fussing with the music sheet and straighten Mary’s skirts, which were bunched up awkwardly, or to shove Mary off the bench completely.

This was like watching a wagon approach a cliff, and she was powerless to stop it.

Glancing down at her gown, Elizabeth rose, conscious of Mr Darcy’s curious look in her direction. “I have been out all morning. Excuse me while I change into something?—”

“Sit down, Lizzy,” her mother snapped. “You look lovely.”

Elizabeth did enjoy this dress, one she had chosen specifically for Mr Wickham, believing both the deep red colour and style flattered her.

Even so, she was sweating and blaming the material for being too thick to wear on such a mild day, though not five minutes earlier, this thought had not been in her mind.

Mary began the sombre, religious tune, and then, worse, began to sing.

Elizabeth glanced towards Mr Darcy whose face was impassive. His eyes widened when Mary hit a particularly unfortunate note, but he did not react further. She supposed she should thank him for that much.

Miss Bingley was less circumspect. As Mary strove for a particularly high note, Miss Bingley reached out to grip Mr Darcy’s arm, as if sharing a joke.

Though he did not respond to her touch, the intimacy of the gesture made Elizabeth suspect they had an agreement or understanding amongst themselves.

It would be sensible, given that Mr Darcy was friends with Miss Bingley’s brother, and from what she could surmise, they were of equal social standing.

Miss Bingley’s delicate features irritated Elizabeth, though why that was she could not say.

Miss Bingley’s pert nose raised higher and higher as the song went on, and her pale skin, which showed that she did not spend as much time in the sun as Elizabeth, pinkened with the apparent effort of not laughing at Mary. Elizabeth was ready to do her violence.

At long last, the song ended. Mary rose to tepid applause and, looking pleased with herself, returned to the sofa.

Mrs Bennet smiled as if her middle daughter had not just performed disgracefully. Unperturbed, she said, “Do play, Lizzy. The gentlemen would like to hear.”

Though Mr Bingley’s eyes were bright, Mr Darcy looked from under his brow with an expression that was a comical mix of boredom and trepidation, prompting Elizabeth to say, “Mama, perhaps we have had enough music.”

“Nonsense. All of my girls must display their talents.”

“Talents? Mama, I think we can agree I am the least accomplished of the Bennet sisters when it comes to the pianoforte.”

Elizabeth glanced at the guests, pained by Miss Bingley’s unhidden sneer and Mr Darcy’s look of dread. She had no desire to argue in front of them, nor to show how much she lacked of this particular skill.

“If she does not wish to play,” suggested Mary, “I could play again.”

Mr Darcy, and even Mr Bingley, appeared alarmed by this suggestion. Elizabeth shot a desperate glance towards her father who was roused to say, “Once is enough, my dear, but thank you.”

Mary’s eyes brimmed; despite the inadequacy of her performance, she always took offence to being asked to abstain.

She rose and excused herself, and by the time she reached the door, was nearly at a run.

Elizabeth began to rise, as well, hoping to comfort her, thinking it unfair to humiliate Mary at such a tender age.

But before Elizabeth could depart, Mrs Bennet said, “Play the Liszt, Lizzy.”

She looked towards the door, but then Jane said, “Perhaps a short song. One we could all sing along to?”

Elizabeth felt betrayed, for Jane knew she desired to leave. Then, struck by mischief, Elizabeth nodded. She stretched her fingers, sat, and began some introductory chords.

“Oh heavens,” she heard Jane whisper, and her mother said, “No, Lizzy. You—” but it was too late.

In Scarlet Town where I was born,

There was a fair maid dwellin’

Made ev’ry youth cry “Well-a-day!”

Her name was Barb’ra Allen.

Only Kitty and Lydia sang along with Elizabeth, who played with surprisingly few errors.

By the time she finished the short song, her mother’s eyes were wide, and Jane’s were fixed to her lap.

When Elizabeth rose from the piano bench, Kitty and Lydia cheered, for they did love the song about love and loss, and her father clapped, though with less enthusiasm.

Then Mr Bingley clapped, his eyes twinkling, and Elizabeth felt her insides relaxing.

Perhaps the song had not been a misstep, despite its mention of virgins and death, but then she saw Miss Bingley’s cruel amusement and Mr Darcy, whose face was tight with judgment, and doubted herself.

Unease gripped her, but she lifted her chin in an outward show of defiance. “You are not a fan of folk tunes, Mr Darcy?”

“It depends,” he said, each word clipped, “on the song.”

Mrs Bennet, apparently sensing trouble, stood and suggested a walk in the garden, “which has the finest roses blooming in all the county”—an absurd bit of affectation, most certainly in October, but no one argued with her assertion or suggestion.

All but Elizabeth rose and began to file out the door.

She did not wish to follow Miss Bingley and her imperious stride, or her younger sisters as they giggled and quarrelled, or even Mr Bingley as he paid court to Jane.

Though it gave her hope that he might be what Jane desired, it made her feel peevish just then.

Elizabeth sat plunking out the melody of the Liszt song her mother had wanted her to play, and Mr Darcy, about to cross through the doorway, turned back.

“Why did you not play that for us?” he asked.

Elizabeth fought back a smirk. Though his feelings had been clear, she feigned innocence and asked, “Did you not like the song I chose?”

“I prefer songs of love to those of death.”

She rested her fingertips on the keys, but ceased playing. “Have you experience upon which to draw?”

“Experience in love or with death?”

“Either. Both.”

She feared she was too blunt, for he stared off as if lost in thought for a moment. Then he answered, “With death I certainly do, which is what makes me loathe such songs. Experience with love of the romantic sort? No.”

His candour surprised her. Why was he confessing this truth to her?

Elizabeth studied him. A man so handsome, so tall, and—if his attire had anything to say about it—so wealthy had not found love? It was hard to conceive. Yet he seemed remote and discerning, so perhaps he had not allowed any lady to become close enough to him to feel such emotions.

“Have you looked for love in earnest, Mr Darcy?” She knew she ought to cease this too-forward line of questioning, but her curiosity, as it often did, thwarted sense.

“You are a curious creature, Miss Elizabeth,” he said.

“I suppose I am, but having begun so candidly, you must have expected further questions.”

He chuckled, took a few steps towards her, and leant against the pianoforte. “Would you say you have a talent for music?”

She shook her head, wishing he had not changed the subject. “I was not merely being modest when I declared my playing poor.”

“We must all be aware of our limitations and behave accordingly.”

His turn of phrase caused her to let out a hearty guffaw. She covered her mouth in embarrassment while he looked on with raised eyebrows.

“You find that amusing?” he asked.

“I find it blunt. Though, as you can see, I enjoy bluntness.” She stroked the keys absently for a moment and asked, “Pray, what is the need for me to play perfectly?”

“To be accomplished.”

“And this shall win me a husband?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “In theory.”

“Are you attracted by the mastery of a woman’s playing?”