Page 65 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“Already, Elizabeth, you defend him! What shall we do with you?” She stood, taking my hand. “Very well. I can see you are resolved not to discuss it further—let us talk of roses.”

‘Whatever does Marianne mean?’ Lydia regarded me with a puzzled expression. ‘Indeed, her brother merely sees her—but Fitzwilliam stares at Lizzy.’

‘Perhaps not all brothers are alike in their admiration of their sisters,’ said Mary, a little uncertainly.

‘Fitzwilliam truly loves Georgiana—he is the best of brothers.’ Kitty sighed. ‘Yet he never looks at her with such intensity as he does Lizzy. Is it proper, I wonder, for a brother to love his sister with such passion?’

I could not reply, for truly I had begun to doubt my heart—that of mere sisterly affection. For Kitty had the right of it—Fitzwilliam’s regard was highly improper. Hamlet loved Ophelia, and claimed that forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up his sum. I wished for the love of only one brother, if, indeed, it was a brother’s love I desired.

* * *

The household had returned to some semblance of order, though pot-meat and broth were still being made up and carried to those tenants in need. The dinner, of three courses, was sufficiently handsome to deny Lady Catherine’s censure, and Mrs. Crawley remarked that she had never before seen such a good table whose dishes were prepared with an eye to economy and convenience for the kitchen. Mama promised to share the receipts, once the Crawleys had returned to their estate.

When the ladies returned to the drawing room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission until coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to having her judgement controverted. I had thought—after her crude warning earlier in the week—that I would be freed from further impertinent interrogation.

“Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?” Lady Catherine directed her attention to me.

“A little.”

A flat response. Likely, she perceived a weakness that she could exploit, for she continued her offensive. “Just a little? Then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Mr. Darcy’s instrument is a capital one, probably superior to any of your experience.”

Mama grew somewhat irritated—it was not Lady Catherine’s place, as a guest, to secure the entertainments for the evening. “It is a fine instrument,” she interrupted, “Broadwood and Sons—similar to that which Mr. Bennet bought for Jane and Elizabeth. We thought very well of it.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, you must play,” cried Georgiana, springing up and moving toward the piano-forte.

“We are to have a performance, what a delight!” At that moment, the gentlemen joined us; Mr. Darcy spoke to the room. “And five young ladies to display. Gentlemen, I believe we are in for a treat.”

Lady Catherine pursed her lips. “Anne, if her health allowed her, would have made a great proficient. Yet there are few people in England who have more enjoyment of music than myself. Miss Bennet, are you to play for us, then?”

Before I could reply, Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that I, or the other young ladies, would lead the way—which we as politely and more earnestly demurred—she seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and their performance was excellent, receiving much well-deserved applause. Miss Crawley, after some persuasion, took the music stool and entertained us with some lively Scottish airs, all very well received; though Lady Catherine sniffed that such pieces were overly provincial for an evening’s entertainment.

“Shall I play something more suited to your taste, Aunt?” said Georgiana. “Perhaps you would enjoy one of Handel’s suites for keyboard?”

“I have a great natural taste, preferably for the English composers. Certainly, Handel would suit.”

‘Does she know,’ Mary murmured, ‘that Handel was born in Germany?’ Fitzwilliam looked at me and smirked.

Soon, the sparkling Fugue of Handel’s keyboard Suite in E minor filled the room. I sat back, closing my eyes, enjoying the chromatic passages and far-ranging modulations of the movement. The following Allemande was graceful and expressive; then the swift Courante, the stately Sarabande, and the Gigue, a fast, energetic movement concluding the suite. Georgiana’s playing was refined and sensitive; both Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were beaming, proud as they had every right to be, of her musical ability.

I fought a frisson of fear as I made my way to the instrument. My shoulder ached slightly; I had barely touched the keys since our return from the Lakes.

“If you would rather not play, Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam, seeing my discomfort, “I am sure our guests understand you are still recovering from your shoulder injury.”

“Oh, tosh, Fitzwilliam. Miss Bennet seems recovered enough to me. Neither Anne nor I would refuse to entertain guests for such a trifle.”

“Catherine, you have no idea what you speak of: Elizabeth suffered a serious injury. And whenever has Anne entertained us, except to sniffle and demand more shawls? And if you find your continuous prattle entertaining, then you are the only one in the room who does!”

Clearly, Mr. Darcy was becoming increasingly angry with Lady Catherine’s continual sniping at Mama and me. Yet, I did not need his defence—I would not let her ladyship intimidate me. My courage rose, just as it had done when ascending Scawfell Pike and descending the scree slope to overturn Wickham.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” I heard Fitzwilliam mutter, “I have seen that expression before—it ended with such injuries that I feared for your life.”

I sat at the keys, flexing my shoulder—the veriest twinge. I looked at Mama, and knew immediately what song I would sing; it was so very special to both of us. I sang I Know That My Redeemer Liveth and let the music and words of Handel’s beautiful aria speak for themselves, as they had done for Papa and Mama in the music room at Longbourn. As I sang, Mama’s eyes filled with tears—Mr. Darcy, sitting beside her, took her hand, as so often Papa had done when she needed companionship and comfort.

My voice soared; I could neither control it nor wished it otherwise.

I would not give Lady Catherine the pleasure of knowing how my arm ached, that I could scarcely lift it off the keys as I returned to the settee. Fitzwilliam saw; there were tears in his eyes beyond those caused by Handel’s music. He sat beside me, taking my good hand in his.