And evening’s closing eye
As peep of early day.
The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously arrayed
In nature’s various robe,
With wondrous skill displayed,
Is to a mourner's heart
A dreary wild at best;
It flutters to depart,
And longs to be at rest.
He lingered and mused over those lines, his vision growing hazy as he tried to imagine everything Elizabeth had told him about her home—and the most central of all was not the rugged splendour that met the eye, but the heart of the beholder…herheart. Yes, he understood it perfectly, or at least, he wished he did.
Discordant and mis-timed notes from the piano interrupted his reverie, and he stared for a moment at his sister as he regrouped his thoughts. She was tapping out something unfamiliar to him, deep lines carved over her brow as she dipped and rocked her head with each drop of her fingers. Occasionally, she would stop and jot something down on a piece of paper, then play a bit more. Often, she would shake her head and amend what she had just written, then work out more notes.
“Georgiana, what are you doing?” he asked at last.
She started with a look of utter innocence, as though she had not realised he could hear her. “Nothing.”
“It is not nothing for you to look so puzzled. Are you composing something?”
She drifted a few light fingers over the keys. “It is nothing special.”
“Nothing special, my eye. Play that last bit again.”
She looked reluctant, but she obliged. Darcy listened to the chopped and ragged notes of a moment ago, now blended and smoothed into an expressive refrain. “It is beautiful. You wrote this yourself?”
“Sometimes, I put together a few measures for amusement. They are nothing important or even particularly good—”
“Stop saying things like that. It was a pleasure to listen to, and that makes it good. You do this often? How long have you been composing your own music?”
She shrugged. “For a couple of years now. Some of the pieces I played for the countess were my creation, but she never knew that.”
“Neither did I. They were charming and bright—I thought they were some new American pieces you had found for teaching Elizabeth.”
She smiled tightly, as if trying to decide whether to accept his words as a compliment. “I wrote that song for her.”
“That song… You speak as if I should know which one you mean.”
“Don’t know how you could not. The one she played at Matlock—you asked her to play it every evening we were there.”
His face burned consciously. “Oh. Yes, that song. Come, now, Georgiana, why have you never mentioned an interest in writing music before?”
“Why should I bother? It is not as if you would let me pursue it.”
He closed the book of poetry with a snap and set it aside. “Do you really think that? Am I the sort of guardian who denies your pleasures out of hand?”
“No, but to learn composition, I would need to study at a conservatory, and I do not prefer London. You have not been amenable to me travelling.”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a specific prohibition for a particular reason. If your desire is to fulfil a true ambition, then I absolutely would be agreeable to something. I have even asked you about this before. Is this something you wish to pursue?”
