Elizabeth laughed. “What accomplishments matter, if the impressive ones do not?”
“A sense of character. Firmness to do what is right. A care for children. The improvement of the mind through extensive reading.” at Elizabeth’s mischievous smile, Darcy immediately added, “Not Plato, I note.”
“Of course not.”
“But the piano… Music is not important, except as a fountain of pleasure for the player and the listener. A woman who performs exquisitely possesses no moresubstancethan one who only plays ill.”
“Do you refer to me?” Elizabeth giggled, making the tune flounder into missed notes.
Bingley called out, “Stop flirting with our pianist, Darcy. We need her to keep the rhythm.”
“You can see,” said she to Darcy, after Elizabeth had recovered the tune, “whyIam relieved to hear your praise of women who play ill.”
“You wish me to like you?” He meant to say it teasingly. But there was a desperate note to his voice, as though her answer mattered.
Her eyes glanced at him quickly, dark and bright and deep. They were aware of each other.
They sat close, and her leg pressed against his, and her silky dress rubbed against his wool coat. She would not have begged him to dance, she would not have ordered him to sit beside her, if she did not like him.
Darcy’s heart pounded in his ears.
Neither said anything. Darcy watched Georgiana again. She brightly smiled as she was at last able to use her carefully trained knowledge of the art of dancing. She was happy, and he had not been the one to care for her.
“It is my fault. I realize that now.”
Elizabeth cocked her head as she continued to play.
“Georgiana’s isolation. I never made the effort to find people who would acknowledge her.”
“You believed it impossible.”
Darcy flipped the page for Elizabeth. “You and Jane prove the possibility.”
“That is hardlyyourfault.”
“You mean that you succeeded where I failed to try?”
“A failure of imagination is not a moral failing.”
“My duty is to ensure her happiness.”
“She is happynow.”
“I cannot but think of how many years wasted — how her life would have been different, if I diligently looked for society that would accept her and Anne. I feel a dreadful guilt.”
“One should strive to remember the past only as it gives one pleasure.”
“My guilt is too grand forthat. I do not enjoy social gatherings in general.”
Elizabeth smiled at the piano as she played. “I know.”
“After my inexcusable rudeness, you must — too many people pressing round about, who I have no or little acquaintance with. I far prefer solitude — or to be with my dearest companions at evenings.”
“My favorite location in the whole of this world” — Elizabeth’s hands slowed, and the music became sweeter — “is a bare twenty feet from where we sit. My father’s library, when he occupies it. He and I need not talk, not at all. To sit next to him with a book, to look out the window, and drink from a steaming cup of chocolate or tea. I understand your yearning.”
Darcy closed his eyes. Elizabeth’s music interacted with his soul. She lacked technical perfection but there was a sensibility in her timing, a feel for the emotion, which made her playing beautiful. Darcy imagined her rhythm as a brilliant dawning of the sun, lighting the clouds reddish and causing a beam of light to burst through and illuminate a forested hill in the distance.
He sighed. “Georgiana’s exclusion from society gave me an excuse to disdain the company of all except close friends, while making a pretense of a noble sacrifice for her sake. I was misanthropic and selfish — and I hurt my sister.”
