Page 22 of Darcy's Legacy Tortoise
“Do not trouble yourself with their scrutiny.” My gaze swept the circle of idle, judging faces. “They are people of small minds and narrower horizons. Their opinion is a mirror of their own limitations, nothing more.”
She turned to me, her eyes dark and searching. “You are very kind to say so, Mr. Darcy. But you need not fear on my account. I have lived long enough in Hertfordshire to know that a verdict delivered from behind a lorgnette is rarely worth the glass it is viewed through.”
She was right, of course, and I admired her all the more for it. Still, the urge to shield her from their censure was nearly overwhelming. One day, when she was mistress of Pemberley, these same women would lower their lorgnettes and curtsey as if their knees depended on it.
Miss Audley performed the Beethoven at nine o’clock, and I will grant Caroline this much: the woman was talented. The sonata was thePathétique, and Miss Audley played it with technical precision and emotional intelligence that silenced the room as genuine artistry does. Caroline had not been wrong about Miss Audley’s accomplishments. She had only been wrong about their relevance.
I watched Elizabeth instead. She sat perfectly still, hands folded, her face open with unguarded admiration. It undid me, that willingness to be moved by beauty without first building a wall of irony. We glanced at each other during certain passages, sharing something wordless and private—a recognition, perhaps, that music could say what we could not.
During the interval, I drew Bingley aside from his sisters. “Charles, there is an introduction I should like to make.”
“If it involves Miss Audley, Darcy, I would rather?—”
“It involves Miss Audley, Miss Bennet, and Miss Elizabeth. It will take three minutes and prevent Caroline from doing something considerably worse. Trust me.”
He studied my face. Bingley may not be perceptive in the usual ways, but he has always read me with alarming accuracy. Whatever he saw convinced him.
I gathered Elizabeth and Jane under the pretense of congratulating the performer—an entirely unremarkable social maneuver. Elizabeth took my arm, and the warmth of her hand through my sleeve was precisely what I could not afford to notice while crossing Caroline’s battlefield.
Miss Audley stood near the instrument, receiving compliments. She had fair hair and an open, intelligent face that bore no resemblance to Caroline’s sharpened features.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, may I present Miss Audley. Miss Audley, Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, nieces of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street.”
“How do you do?” Miss Audley’s smile was the uncomplicated kind. “Did you enjoy the programme? I am always nervous about thePathétique. Beethoven demands such exactitude, and I worry theadagioloses its shape in a room this size.”
“Theadagiowas exquisite,” Elizabeth said with sincerity. “You play with great feeling. I am not accomplished enough to dissemble about music I admire.”
“How refreshing. Most people praise the difficult passages. Very few notice the quiet ones.”
“Those are the passages where the real playing happens,” Elizabeth said.
“Miss Audley and my sister Caroline attended Madame Girard’s seminary together,” Bingley offered.
“How lovely,” Jane said, her composure flawless.
But I caught the flash in Elizabeth’s eyes as she glanced at Caroline. She understood the subtext:I have heard so much about you from Caroline.It was a declaration of war, dressed up as drawing room civility. Caroline had been orchestrating this for months, weaving a trap that used Miss Audley’s kindness to make Jane look unsuitable.
Elizabeth looked at me, a silent, piercing question:Is this your doing?
I held her gaze, steady and impenetrable.I am managing the situation,I tried to convey through the silence.Trust me.
Whether she saw the bargain or only saw me being Darcy—composed, unreadable, distant—I could not tell. But she gave a small, sharp nod, and the tightness in my chest eased.
Caroline returned to her seat. The second half of the programme featured a soprano whose voice was competent but unremarkable, and I sat beside Elizabeth—not touching, propriety observed to the letter—and allowed myself the luxury of being near her while the music played amid the social machinery of a London Season.
“Miss Audley was not what I expected,” Elizabeth murmured, leaning close enough that I caught the faint, clean scent of her hair. “I had thought she would be pretentious, more like Caroline.”
“She may have attended the same academy, but she has real talent, standing as an earl’s daughter and wealth enough to draw Caroline’s interest.”
Elizabeth glanced at Caroline, who pretended not to notice our whispering. The thin line of her lips betrayed her true interest.
“Miss Audley is being presented to Charles,” Elizabeth observed.
“Caroline has been arranging this for months. She believes Miss Audley’s fortune and connections will cure Charles of his attachment to your sister.”
“I don’t believe it will work.” Elizabeth peered at Bingley, who sat with his body angled toward the platform, but his eyes were fixed on Jane as if no one else existed. Her gaze lingered on the pair before she turned back to me. “You are protecting them, aren’t you? You are managing Caroline so that she cannot interfere. It must be so exhausting for you, Mr. Darcy, managing other people’s happiness.”
Her words cut closer than she knew. I was managing threats, introductions, compliments, and the three careful minutes that kept Caroline from destroying everything with a single letter. I could not tell Elizabeth any of it, because the reason was my guilt.
