“Are you attending Lady Cresilde’s musicale?” Georgiana asked, sipping her port.

​

Because it was just the two of them for dinner, the Darcy siblings dispensed with the usual protocols. Instead, his sister joined him in his study for port rather than retiring alone to read or play with her cards.

He stared into his own glass, frowning. “I have work to do.” Evidenced by the mess of papers on his desk, pushed aside just enough to allow for a few moments’ respite.

​

“You always work. I am unimpressed with your excuse. Come, you must attend. This rising talent, Miss Elise Benichou, is to play.”

​

“Ah. By any chance, is this the true reason you convinced me to abandon Pemberley for the season?”

She grinned. “Not the season. Just for this occasion, though Miss Benichou is quite fashionable this year. I believe she will be a guest of most of the ton.”

​

Darcy grimaced. He begrudged no artist a living, but he did not look forward to Georgiana’s attempt to dragoon him into participating in an activity that was considered fashionable. He avoided such indignities whenever possible.

​

“You will owe me if I accompany you.”

​

“I’ll check my ledger. I am certain you owe me.”

​

Darcy snorted as she exited, wishing not for the first time he had found a wife whose personality suited him as well as his sister’s. There had been a time—but that had not come to pass, and the long years since had taught him that if ever again he was given a chance, he would grasp it with both hands. He would never allow his pride to stand in the way of happiness. For what did he have now? 

​

Darcy glanced around his study. Overflowing with books, the fire flickered low, work enough to fill his mind and hours with activity. But no children, no family other than Georgiana.

​

He stared into the fire, pushing the papers further away, and realised the ennui he felt was a biting loneliness. And what was loneliness except the absence of love? Such a shame it had taken all these years to unbend enough to learn this lesson.

​

* * *

Even after ten years of study and the brazen start of her career as a fashionable pianist for the ton, Elizabeth’s nerves still troubled her before a performance. In these times she always doubted her plan to use her skills to build a nest egg. Who did she think she was, some great musical genius? But she could not give into her inner critic. She loved her sister and brother-in-law and their children, but Jane well knew that being the poor maiden aunt was not the life Elizabeth wanted for herself long term. 

​

Drastic problems were never solved by less than drastic measures.

​

“Miss Benichou,” Lady Cresilde trilled, kissing the air over both her cheeks. “We are so delighted you could join us.”

​

“How could I not?” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “Your gatherings are legendary; I would not dare refuse.”

​

As if she would dare refuse, regardless. It suited society, and Elizabeth, to pretend she did not perform for the money. Money was handled by stewards and secretaries, fees never discussed by Elizabeth and the nobles or wealthy patrons who hired her. The pretence did not bother her one whit. The extra illusory layer between her and any financial discussions kept her reputation from devolving into that of a poor, working artist. Her stage name was a thin veneer, easily cracked—she had not put much effort into concealing her true name and thus had, on occasion over the years, run into patrons while with her friends or family.

​

Lady Cresilde escorted Elizabeth to the piano. “I hope it meets with your approval.”

​

She knew it would, for she had arrived earlier that afternoon to ensure it was properly tuned. Elizabeth’s gloved hand ran over the warm, silky wood. “It is a lovely creature, Lady Cresilde. Not an Adenauer, but the next best thing to it. I am envious.”

​

Her thin mouth pursed. “It has been in my family for, oh, years. Not as good as an Adenauer, you say?”

Elizabeth took a seat, smoothing her gown underneath her thighs. No one knew of her family connection to her brother-in-law, Robert Adenauer, a renowned pianist turned piano maker, and it would say that way.

​

“No, no, it really is quite an exquisite instrument. Robert cannot compete with the grandeur of these ancient lovelies. They create their pianos to order, crafted to match the taste and personality of the owner, and the sound. . .perfecto. But quite expensive. No, no, such an expense is not necessary when one already possess something of this quality.”

​

Lady Cresilde was hooked, Elizabeth could see. Robert made almost a performance of the initial meeting with a patron, crafting an art out of ensuring they felt truly coddled.

​

She watched Cresilde under her lashes, fingers ghosting over the white keys. Orders were low this month. If Elizabeth secured the Marchioness, then more commissions would follow. She, Jane, and Jane’s husband lived comfortably, but their comfort was always one set of keys away from discomfort. Elizabeth helped provide for the household as well as set aside money for her eventual plans.

​

Considering what those plans actually were always elicited an unfurling of loneliness. For once she had the money to live and travel independently as a modestly well-off gentlewoman—what then? She had no one besides her sisters, all scattered with their own lives. Their own husbands and children, their households and neighbours, and. . .whom did Elizabeth have?

​

Wrenching her mind away from oncoming melancholy, she focused on Lady Cresilde’s next words.

“Do you perchance know this Mr Adenauer?”

​

Oh, you naïve woman, Elizabeth thought. “I have made his acquaintance. It pleases me to sometimes test the tone of his newest creations. To be the first to ever touch fingertips to the keys.” She placed the tips of one gloved hand delicately on the piano, the other pressed to her bosom. “I feel. . .this will seem dramatic. . .but I almost feel close with God. Such magnificence. But so rare to test a piano, he only takes commissions from very select clientele. Those he knows will absolutely appreciate his little darlings. Only individuals of the highest calibre.”

​

“I see, I see. Perhaps. . .if you are certain that the Adenauer pianos are so exclusive. . .well, I am a personal friend of the Lord Lockhart’s wife. Perhaps. . . .”

​

The wife of an Earl. Elizabeth allowed her expression to remain innocently bland for a long moment, then widened her eyes.

​

“Oh. Oh! An introduction?” Her head tilted toward Cresilde, and she glanced around conspiratorially. “I. . .believe I can be prevailed upon. The elegance of this room, the company. I am certain I could convince him that you were just the right caretaker for one of his darlings. I cannot guarantee it, of course. He is an artist, and you understand how temperamental they can be.”

​

Lady Cresilde nodded sagely. “Of course. Do your best, my dear. I shall be grateful.”

​

Elizabeth waited until the guests drifted into the music room, taking seats in pairs and solos. Cresilde introduced Elizabeth and when it was time, she shut out the hum of slowly dying conversation and turned to her instrument.

​

Lady Cresilde’s guests listened attentively as Elizabeth played, or as attentively as an audience at such a gathering ever did. Some sat politely only because the appreciation of music was considered a sign of good breeding. Others truly enjoyed the art.

​

More like a craft. She had not been a proficient player until years ago, fueled by the humiliation of her poor performance in front of Lady Catherine. At the time, she had laughed her inadequacy off, but after the days and weeks that followed. . .her lack of accomplishment at the piano became the symbol for all that was lacking in her life. Inheritance, suitors, true refinement.

​

Pride, as well as circumstances, had forced her to take this path. A path that had once seemed so adventurous, so defiant.

​

She was on her second piece when a slight tremble danced through her fingers and disturbed the notes, imperceptible unless one was a true connoisseur of music. A quality in the air, like a sudden inhalation of breath or the brief but sharp focus of a stranger’s attention, thrummed her finely honed instincts. 

​

Elizabeth ended with a flourish and rose, an atavistic shiver caressing the back of her neck. She curtsied as the room applauded—there, again, that something in the air that she ignored with will until it faded, then drifted back to her thoughts.

​

She might have become a governess, but Elizabeth Bennet was not fated to fade away shut up in a grey nursery educating spoilt daughters of the gentry.

​

No, she desired the rush in her blood every time she conquered her fear and sat to play. The exultation as notes poured from her fingertips—the result of hard work and hidden talents. Her gowns, less sumptuous than the dress of the ton, but certainly of higher quality she had ever possessed growing up, she considered an expense of her trade. She must look the part, after all. Could she give up the fashions for a governess’ sombre attire?

​

Perhaps, once. . .but not now that she had tasted the brush of adulation, the heady independence of earning an income.

​

And yet, as she smiled at the crowd, underneath the satisfaction of another well done set, her heart lay leaden in her breast. With each performance, the thrill in her blood lessened. She feared that soon these evenings would feel as empty and pointless as teaching children their arithmetic.

​

She wanted more, but she was unable to pinpoint what the more was. Oh, Elizabeth, she sighed to herself. Be grateful for what you have. Do not pine for something lost, or not destined to be.

​

Especially when the memory of what was lost stung like a thorn in her side. She pushed aside those flashes of thoughts, of regret. Life would have been no better, surely.

​

There it was again: the sharpness in the air, a tingle dancing over her skin as if hidden eyes scrutinized her person. This time she did not shy away.

​

Elizabeth surveyed the crowd as she left her place, refusing to dismiss her fancifulness. She would take a glass of punch, mingle for a few minutes to preserve the polite fiction that she was simply a talented guest and not in trade, and then slip away, her purpose for the evening done. Tomorrow she would prospect for clients under the guise of making calls and taking a walk in the most fashionable parks. At some point some gentlewoman would remark on her performance and invite her to another gathering to play and so on and so forth.

​

Perhaps it was not the life she truly desired, but it was a life, and she was blessed to possess a certain amount of cleverly wrested agency unheard of for an unmarried gentlewoman.

The tingle in the air rose up and slapped her in the face.

​

“This is marvelous!” a feminine voice exclaimed. “I did not know it was you, Miss Elizabeth.”