Chapter 28

Friday morning, Lady Matlock announced her idea of the ‘perfect’ contest—a musical evening, with every young lady heavily encouraged to take the ‘opportunity’ to participate.

“Everyone who performs will receive a clue to the treasure hunt. None of my time shall be required in order to obtain a clue,” Mr Darcy added.

Jane, embarrassed by her recent lack of practise, declared her intent to spend the greater part of the day diligently rehearsing on an instrument in a small, lesser-used parlour.

“A mere day will never compensate for my inattention to my musical studies,” Elizabeth responded. “I shall play the shortest, simplest piece I can muddle through—or in other words, make a fool of myself.”

After a few minutes of listening to her practise, however, Georgiana had come to her rescue. They worked together on a four-hand piece in which the younger girl’s skill more than compensated for Elizabeth’s shortcomings. When Elizabeth began singing during one of the airs they played together for fun, Georgiana insisted that she perform it to her accompaniment. Elizabeth was uncertain of the advisability of this but she did enjoy the exercise, and practising would keep her mind from thinking of so many other things—including a packet received this morning from her uncle, a jumble of articles, notes, letters, broadsheet and newspaper cuttings, the usual assortment from Mr Bowen—requiring her attention.

For just over a week now, she had been, for the most part, Elizabeth of Longbourn, fitting as easily into country life as if she had never left it. Another life, her true life, awaited her—the one in London. She must not forget that fact, and yet…for the first time, she wanted to.

Never pretend, Elizabeth, she warned herself. Never forgetwho you really are.

After a dinnerin which they almost completely snubbed her, Elizabeth had some hopes that the Misses Bingley and de Bourgh had abandoned their whole idea. She hoped it even though Sarah, via her maid, discovered that Miss de Bourgh had indeed requested two pitchers of lemonade be delivered to her rooms—one made with mint leaves, and one plain—presumably so that the pourer could tell each pitcher apart.

Perhaps she ought to simply refuse any overture from the pair and appear rude, but Elizabeth had developed an aversion to anything smacking of cowardice. Still, she maintained her hope that they had decided to be sensible, right up until they descended upon her with sham jollity and pretend friendship the moment they all entered the music room.

“Miss Elizabeth, you must join us here,” Miss Bingley called in falsely dulcet tones, patting the sofa beside her. “We would so enjoy becoming better friends.”

Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who pretended not to notice the obvious exclusion. Sarah quickly came to the rescue, pulling her sister to a grouping of chairs much nearer the pianoforte and immediately beginning a conversation with Georgiana. Envious that her sister was in much better company, she nevertheless resigned herself to playing her part.

Elizabeth had only enquired of Sarah as to whether she possessed the expertise to brew a lemonade strong enough to disguise the flavour of a liqueur. Sarah had agreed that she could indeed do so, with delicious results.

“I suppose they plan to simply add liqueur to the pitcher containing the mint,” she had said. “It will probably taste like swill, and you would not have been fooled. With mine, they will be.”

Evans, Sarah’s maid, was to arrange the switch, a task well within her diverse talents, Sarah assured her. None of their plotting would have amounted to much if not for Evans. Not only was she a past master of unearthing household secrets wherever they lay hidden, but evidently bolted doors presented no particular obstruction to her.

“Even if the pitchers are locked in Miss de Bourgh’s chamber?” Elizabeth had asked. Georgiana could, of course, have obtained the keys to any room from Mrs Reynolds—but the asking would have been awkward and indiscreet.

“Even so,” Sarah had replied, obviously without a qualm.

As if hearing Elizabeth’s thoughts, Mrs Jenkinson quietly entered the music room and set two pitchers on a table at the back.

Elizabeth trusted her friend’s confidence in the servant’s abilities; nevertheless, she sipped cautiously at the cup thrust into her hands by an eager Miss Bingley as Miss Lushington began entertaining them with a lively piece on the pianoforte.

“I know how you adore lemonade,” Miss Bingley said, managing to sound both condescending and critical.

“I did not realise you enjoyed it, though,” Elizabeth replied, gesturing to the cup in Miss Bingley’s hand. “Or you,” she added, addressing Miss de Bourgh. “Perhaps the other young ladies would also enjoy the treat?”

“Oh, they will have tea. This is my woman’s special recipe,” Miss de Bourgh said, hastily sipping at her cup. An odd expression crossed her face.

Miss Bingley, who had taken a mouthful at the same time, likewise showed her surprise with raised brows and widened eyes.

That is that, Elizabeth thought, with some regret. Sarah’s Secret Lemonade is a secret no longer.

But to her amazement, they did not regard their cups with suspicion.

“Why, this is delicious!” exclaimed Miss Bingley, forgetting to pretend that she had been a longtime lemonade-admirer. “How unexpected!”

“Mrs Jenkinson is a treasure. An absolute treasure!” Miss de Bourgh chimed in, nearly slurping up the contents.

Elizabeth took a long drink of her surprise-free brew. “It is tasting remarkably well this evening,” she said, meaning it.

Darcy wonderedat the high-pitched giggles coming from Miss Bingley’s and Anne’s corner; he had never seen either of them so…jovial, drawing the attention of some of the other guests. Whatever the conversation, it was plainly a flirtatious dialogue, for the elderly Mr Fletcher’s tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth and Lord Roden was laughing loudly while Mr Baker looked upon them disapprovingly. Young Mr Baker stared at the ladies wide-eyed, his spots for once disappeared within cheeks flushed bright red.

Elizabeth sat in between the two ladies, delicately sipping, a spot of serenity amidst a babbling, squawking wilderness. He had been wary when they had suddenly sought her company, but she seemed unaffected.

He gave Lady Matlock a look—one meaning Miss Lushington had entertained them long enough. When the young lady finished her piece, her ladyship thanked her, and she vacated the instrument.

Usually, Miss Bingley was beyond eager to perform whenever there was any opportunity, and he had expected her to leap onto the bench. But she appeared too engrossed in her apparent flirtation with old Mr Fletcher while Anne snorted with laughter, not even seeming to notice there was an instrument. It was quite odd.

Darcy glanced at Lady Catherine, who, as usual, jabbered away instead of paying attention to the pianist. Lady Matlock was the fortunate recipient of her thoughts upon Miss Lushington’s musical taste, fingering, and execution.

Miss Bennet, with the encouragement of Bingley, made her way to the pianoforte. Bingley turned her pages, smiling all the while. She was a competent performer—not as masterful as Georgiana, but few were. Bingley, he saw, was enchanted by it, and by her.

He must be sure to urge Georgiana to play; despite her proficiency, she was too shy to volunteer. He opened his mouth to do so once the music stopped. To his surprise, however, Georgiana took her seat next without any insistence from him. Further, Elizabeth left Anne’s corner and joined her. They consulted in brief murmurs, and then Georgiana’s fingers created some intricate melody; a moment later, Elizabeth began to sing.

He caught his breath. Elizabeth’s voice was contralto, low, sultry, and melodious. The song was two hundred years old at least, grieving and mournful, the sorrow of all the ages in its refrain.

Her vibrato was not the style, per se, of those considered operatic; no master would credit it. But it rolled within him, sweet and subdued.

The room quieted. She drew the attention of everyone in it, to the well of grief they all shared. No one in here was exempt; sorrow dwelt in every heart, from the pompous and foolish to the wise and reserved, and Elizabeth tapped it unmercifully. Beautifully.

When the final note died, spontaneous applause burst out from the room’s inhabitants. Even Miss Bingley looked on with something like disbelief. Anne, whom he had never known to show much of any emotion, dabbed inconspicuously at the corner of her eye. Elizabeth’s voice was appealing, but it was not simply that; her own spirit was in it, sharing her vulnerability and somehow, making it communal. He was awed, and then embarrassed when Lady Catherine’s voice rang out in the quiet, breaking the spell.

“Your voice, although untrained, is not so bad as some others I have heard. Had you a master?”

“No, ma’am, never.”

“Then, who taught you? Who attended to it?”

“I attended to myself.”

Darcy saw the light of annoyance in Elizabeth’s eye at this interrogation, but her response held all the forbearance of civility.

“If I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one,” Lady Catherine said dismissively. “I always say that nothing is to be done in musical education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a master can give it. I myself have the ear of a trained musician. Indeed, I am a master, in every way except singing the notes.”

Darcy nearly burst out in protest at her stupid assertions, but before he could think how to object, Elizabeth graciously nodded and took a seat on the bench beside Georgiana. They performed a four-hand piece, in which his sister’s skills were, to his knowledgeable eye, the superior. Yet, he noticed more than their relative abilities; there were the smiles they exchanged, the sparkle in Georgiana’s eyes when, probably, she had covered one of her friend’s errors with her expertise, the joy with which they engaged the instrument and each other.

Merriment in Georgiana’s eyes…how long since he had seen it? She was having fun. He felt he could marry Elizabeth for this alone.

He could not help from applauding once they finished, and perhaps he overdid it, for he saw Miss Bingley’s gaze snap to the sound and a sour look enter her expression.

“Miss Bingley, perhaps you will treat us to a performance?” Miss Bentley entreated.

The sour look faded immediately, and she preened. He had heard Miss Bingley play many times, and thought her skill very much on par with Miss Bennet’s. She was proficient, in a capable sort of fashion; had he not been regularly exposed to Georgiana’s talent, he might have thought her quite good. Unlike Elizabeth’s sister, she adored being the centre of attention.

“Prepare,” Miss Bingley announced, “to be awed.”