Mary had assured Elizabeth that she was perfectly capable of playing loudly enough that everyone would be able to hear. This silenced Elizabeth’s objections, though for some reason she still didn’t seem particularly pleased.
Mary was determined to show Elizabeth that she could be useful. She had prepared her most complex and most beautiful piano piece specifically for this day. She went over to the piano which sat in the drawing room and opened it. Several of the guests were surprised to see her doing so, but she carried on.
She set her music on the stand and sat down. Her foot hovered over the pedal and her hands floated over the keys for several moments as she breathed and calmed her nerves.
Then she began to move, and music poured from the piano. The feel of her fingers moving in complex patterns and rhythmswas delightful, and the music moved through her, tempting her to dance and sway along with it.
She dampened that feeling, squashing it down with every ounce of self-will she had. She was playing for others, not for herself. She must play the song as written, precisely, accurately. Joy in the music had nothing to do with it, and her own movement would simply distract her from reading the score properly.
As she confidently played the piece exactly as written, a feeling of pride began to grow within her chest, though she would never call it that. She was simply pleased that by working hard, she could provide her mother’s guests with entertainment and pleasure. She was happy that such excellence at the piano would garner praise and gratitude once she was done.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of strenuous exertion without a single wrong note, the song was complete. The sound of the piano faded, and the room was silent. Mary looked around, expecting to see happy faces or at the very least expressions of approval.
Instead, what she saw was Elizabeth and Jane looking embarrassed and everyone else simply staring at her.
Worried that perhaps they were noticing something scandalously wrong with her gown, she looked down. Perhaps her slipper had come off, or her stocking had slid down. But no. All was right with her clothing.
Gradually, the stunned faces morphed into tight smiles and nods of forced approval. Her mother called out, “That was well done, Mary.”
She waited for other compliments or expressions of gratitude for all her hard work.
None came.
The silent room gradually filled with the noise of conversation and the clatter of teacups and silver on china saucers.
Mary did not understand. It had taken her two months of practicing for four hours a day to perfect this piece to such a level. Though she had begun to learn it before their engagements, she had perfected it specifically to honor her sisters on their wedding day, and it was almost completely ignored.
What more could she do? How could she ever gain approval from these people if this much effort gained her nothing.
Mary gathered her music and stood, aiming for the door. The room was completely full, so it took some time to navigate to the exit. The hallway wasn’t much better, but once she gained the stairs, she was clear. No guest would even consider going up there.
She walked carefully with upright posture and her chin held high. She hoped that no one would notice that she was just barely preventing herself from running up the stairs as fast as her legs could go. Once she was certainly out of sight of anyone, however, she let go of the iron maiden which she usually kept clamped around her heart to prevent her real feelings from showing.
Pain rushed from her lonely, isolated, underappreciated heart up to her throat, practically choking her with its sudden tightness. From there, heat flooded her face, and the salty sting of tears filled her eyes.
She managed to reach the safety of her bedroom before it all burst from her in sobs so loud and so violent that she had to muffle them with her pillow for fear of them being heard even over the din of voices downstairs.
She had worked so hard and studied and practiced so much. Her hands would never be smooth like Jane’s or Kitty’s because the fingers were tipped with callouses from playing piano so long. Her arms frequently ached with the effort of holding her hands over the piano keys. There were even more callouses where she frequently held a pen while writing extracts to help her learn better and more thoroughly, and she couldn’t count the number of times she had stained her fingers or dress with ink.
And it was all for nothing.
Nothing!
All her studying of philosophy and religion, trying to understand human nature, all her reading and learning, was all for nothing. No bit of information from all of the millennia of history she had ever learned of could tell her why she was never loved, never appreciated. Learning French had not given her the passions of the French. Nor had learning Italian given her more culture.
She had known for some time that her efforts never garnered quite as much attention as she hoped, but she had always assumed that she just needed to work harder to stand out more.
Her experience downstairs just now proved that her assumption was completely wrong. So much effort had gone into this performance, and it had gained her nothing but a half-hearted compliment from her mother, which she would have gotten if she had just playedMary Had a Little Lamb.
It was all for nothing. Four hours a day practicing, and another four at least, studying. Eight hours a day, often more, every single day. All of it devoted to studying topics she had no real interest in, learning subjects she had no real genius for,and forcing herself to play with precision rather than the chaotic feelings that would ruin it. It was all pointless.
Her mind howled in pain, and her heart screamed even louder with loneliness.
Eventually, the sheer physical fatigue of her outburst overcame her and she fell asleep.
When she awoke, the house was silent, and the dimmer light hinted that sunset was less than an hour away.
Chapter 2
