Page 33 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
The following morning, I strove for equanimity as I went down the hall to the breakfast parlour. I meant to gain the upper hand in my own home at least, and to do so, I knew I must behave better. At the music room I paused, listening through the French glass door.
Richard came up behind and cocked his head.
“She has improved greatly,” I said, much moved. I had never heard her play with such depth, such feeling.
“Has she?” Richard asked, slightly puzzled.
“You forget, I have heard my sister play since she was a child. She is maturing in her style, though she always promised to be a prodigy. I have heard her play more difficult pieces than this, but never have I heard her so expressive.”
“You are listening to Mrs Darcy,” Richard said, walking away while shaking his head.
Indeed, a surreptitious look through the door proved my cousin was right. I began that day to feel my defeat in earnest and wondered whether I would ever recover .
The festivities, Georgiana told me over breakfast, would begin the following day, which was Christmas Eve.
She hoped I did not mind, but they had wondered if the roads would allow me to return in time for the holiday and had taken the risk of extending an invitation to all her friends for dinner and a musical evening.
“Risk?” I asked with ill-disguised consternation.
“You do not hide the fact that you do not like to entertain.”
“I-I suppose I had not thought there were many people hereabouts to invite.”
“There are ladies and gentleman aplenty, but perhaps they are not?—”
“You are perfectly right in inviting them, Porge. I am not sociable enough to see there is acceptable company in country society, and in consequence, I have neglected your entertainment. I had always thought you were shy of company.”
She looked surprised by my use of her pet name, and even more so by my acquiescence. Then, perhaps emboldened by this response, she said, “If I am shy it is because I lack practice. Did you think on whether Mr and Mrs Rogers might be included?”
I had. I was appalled at the notion of hosting a schoolmaster, respectable and educated as he was. “What does Mrs Annesley say?” I asked weakly.
“Her opinion hinges upon yours.”
“What does Mrs Darcy say?”
“I wonder you do not ask what I say,” she said, viciously scraping butter onto her toast.
“Very well. What do you say, Georgiana?”
“I say this is a time for generosity of spirit. They are not starving to be sure, but they might welcome a meal with friends. I see no harm in extending our party to include them, and if anyone is offended, they can decline our hospitality and celebrate with the Prince at Saint James’s Palace for all I care. ”
I sat back in my chair and stared at my sister. “I have never heard you speak with such bitterness.”
Her blue eyes, clear and direct, found mine, and a look of great irony flashed across her features. I perceived instantly that she wished to fling the same accusation at me of late, but she only said, “Because I do not speak my feelings, does not mean I do not feel them.”
“If Mr and Mrs Rogers will come, then by all means, invite them,” I said faintly. I refrained from suggesting the chandler and butcher might also like to dine at Pemberley, acknowledging that my careful cultivation of only the most elegant company was now for naught in any case.
My resistance was childish—and even so disgusting as to mortify me.
I was still, months later, enacting a tantrum and I knew it.
A resentful temperament is one of my faults, to be sure, but self-knowledge did not yet push me to refrain from the indulgence.
Had I not been so lately confronted with my disgrace in society, I might have felt more generous.
My sister would indeed be pulled down by my wife—she was pulled down already and was apparently glad to be so!
My recent encounters in London should have prevented me from mourning this change, but resistance had somehow become the only solid footing I could find. I had never been so confused.