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Chapter Forty

ANNA LEFT PEMBERLEY on Monday afternoon with her blanket, her rattle, and no objection to the manner in which she had been entertained.

Darcy watched from the door as Martha and Ruth went to the carriage. He was still humming the air which had quieted Anna when Ruth carried her out.

Elizabeth stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting while Sally passed with a basket.

“Have I missed her?” she asked.

“Only by a moment.”

She came to the door and waved. Ruth lifted Anna’s hand in reply, and the child attempted to put it into her mouth.

“A very satisfactory acknowledgment,” Elizabeth said as Darcy closed the door. “I should be sorry to require anything more elaborate.”

“Was that you singing upstairs?” she asked.

“Humming.”

“Then I must be more exact in my praise.”

“I did not hear any praise.”

“You interrupted before I could supply it.”

He smiled. They walked toward the drawing room together. Caroline had left with her sister’s letter to consult Charles about the Hursts’ arrival, and Jane was resting. The room was quiet, with the afternoon light falling across the closed pianoforte.

Elizabeth stopped beside it.

“I know part of the air, but not all of it. My aunt used to play something like it. Is it in one of these books?”

“No. I believe it is in Georgiana’s music.”

He had spoken his sister’s name without first considering whether he could bear the answer. Elizabeth glanced at him, then looked back at the instrument.

“She played it often?”

“Very often. She began with it when she was tired of being told what she ought to practise.”

“That recommends it to me.”

Darcy knew where the music was kept. The cabinet beside the farther window contained the pieces his sister used at Pemberley. He had allowed Caroline the books set out for visitors, but the lower drawer remained undisturbed because nobody had asked to open it and he had found no reason to do so himself.

He went to the cabinet.

“You need not find it now,” Elizabeth said.

“I should like to.”

The drawer opened stiffly. He eased it forward with his left hand, sparing the healing cut upon his right, and lifted the upper pieces aside.

There were exercises, two songs copied in Georgiana’s neat hand, and a piece she had disliked sufficiently to write a small cross beside the title. Beneath them lay the air he wanted.

He recognized it from the worn lower corner before he read the notes.

“This is it,” he said.

She opened the instrument and set the sheet upon the stand. “May I try it?”