Chapter 73

73

I t had been the happiest week of his life, he believed. Darcy looked over at his wife as she poured him a cup of tea in the great drawing room, a small sheaf of post in a pile before them. He had already drawn off the business ones and put them aside to be taken to the study. One day soon, he might be able to concentrate on something other than his wife and his great love.

"Have you recognised the senders of any of your letters, dearest?"

She nodded. "There are so many."

Perhaps you might want to read only one or two before we take a turn?" He was puzzled, having thought she would wish to know how her relations fared.

"I will in a moment." She seemed a little restless, and put down the teacup she had only recently picked up.

Ah! The answer came to him. "There are no express letters, so they might all wait a while longer, my dear. You go to the instrument. I can see you will not be happy if you believe I would wish you to remain here."

She leapt to her feet. "You do not mind?"

"Of course not. You must do exactly as you wish, and what you need." He loved that look in her eyes, and she came over and kissed his forehead.

"Thank you, William." Then she was gone, and he smiled and reached for the first letter addressed to him.

But he could not leave her long. He strode towards the music room, but frowned when he heard a few tentative notes fading away.

He hesitated in the doorway. Elizabeth was sitting on the piano stool, her hands still on the keys, her head thrown back, eyes closed, swaying very slightly.

He held his breath. How could he help her? Ought he to speak?

He was happy that he had remained silent when she sighed, and sang a single long note — how could something so simple be so haunting?

Then she moved her hands and began to play. He had never heard anything even remotely similar to it before.

It wove itself around him and propelled him towards her; a love song without words, and he stood behind her, his hands lightly on her shoulders, and she leaned back against him, her hands still weaving their magic over the keys. Finally, as the notes died away, he bent and touched his lips to the back of her neck.

"Beautiful."

She moved her head slightly. "And just for you. No one else will ever hear it."

He demurred. "I am sure that it ought to go into the world. Having been the first to hear it will be privilege enough."

She shivered. "If I ever agree, it will be many years away." She huffed a little laugh. "Charlotte always said I must stay with the same sort of music, as Santorio lovers want to know what they are buying."

He stopped to consider. "That seems very sensible. But then, March of Hope was rather different, and that was well received."

"That seemed so determined to be written." She laughed. "It came to me that morning when I walked over to Netherfield to care for Jane, and over the next few days, when I was annoyed by Miss Bingley, the music just got more and more martial."

Darcy chuckled. "I never guessed what you were thinking about." He wondered whether to speak about what was in his letter from Gardiner, and decided he ought.

He drew a deep breath. "When you have finished here for a while, then there is something I must speak to you about before you read your letters, dearest."

She turned on the stool to face him. "Then we will speak now."

"Very well." He led her to the small sofa by the window. His throat closed; he would not wish to remind her of the discord between them, or of her father, but there was no other way to introduce the topic.

She leaned into him and he put his arm around her shoulders, and groaned. "I love you so much, dearest Elizabeth. But I failed you in so many ways."

She lifted her head from his chest and gave him a look.

"Yes, I know you say I must remember the past only as it gives me pleasure ," he dropped a kiss on her forehead. "But there is really no other way to introduce this topic which your uncle has written to me about."

"Pray tell me at once." Elizabeth turned her head back and rested it on his chest again, as if knowing he would find it easier to speak without her watching him.

He swallowed; he must begin. "You know the last package of music you sent to your uncle? The one that fell from the post coach and became wet?" He could feel her tense in his embrace. He must continue. "Well, apparently your father separated and dried out the sheets. He sent them to your uncle, hoping that they could be deciphered enough to publish; still, apparently, hoping for his portion of the money."

She nodded without moving away from him, to his relief.

"He can throw them away. It is not important now." Her voice was muffled.

Darcy rested his head against hers, grieved that she would speak so. "I am sorry, my love, that I hurt you then, and that I have drawn it back to your attention now. But your uncle is anxious that Hope's Beginning at the very least, ought to be published, and that you might soon feel able to restore the small part that was unintelligibly smudged."

Her head lifted. "Oh, I had forgotten that was in the packet." She looked thoughtful, and shivered slightly. Darcy tightened his arm to draw her closer.

"Do not feel obliged to face the pain if it is too difficult for you," he whispered. "I am to blame for it all."

"No," she sighed. "It was an unfortunate happening. If you had arrived that morning without seeing it, I would have told you the secret; and you might still have felt unable to forgive me for keeping it so long from you."

He nodded, pained. "But I might never have discovered that your father had built that deep mistrust within you." He crushed her to him. "I cannot imagine ever having to live without you — never having known a love like this!"

She sighed. "William, you do not have to. Come, let me breathe a little; you will not lose me."

When she stood and reached out her hand to him, he took it, knowing only that his racing heart needed more assurance from her.

She led him to the instrument and sat him on the stool beside her. "I had forgotten you had not heard it. Hope's Beginning ." Her voice was very quiet. "I wrote it when I was learning to love you, when I was beginning to trust you, and thinking of the new way of living that I might be fortunate enough to know."

She struck up a few notes. Then she was playing for him, the beauty of the piece transfixing him as he watched her. Starting quietly, almost tentatively, the music gradually swelled around them, exploring, drawing back, gaining confidence, power and — yes, hope.

Then she stopped, her head bowed, and he felt the press of her thigh against his; the nearness of her; her lavender scent. He rested his head against hers. "Elizabeth, I can never live without you. But I believe your uncle is correct. If you can bring yourself to repair what has been lost, then the world needs to hear it."

She rested her hand on his thigh, and the heat rushed through him. "Wait. Please." Her head was bowed. Was she weeping? His heart nearly stopped. What had he done? Then her head came up, but her eyes were closed and he waited, still, until her hands went to the keys.

"Yes. I will complete it for him to publish. Then, later, he can publish this." She turned and gave him a look. "You must be the first to listen. I think I might call it Hope's Fulfillment ." She began to play.