Duty and Desire (25 page)

“Yes, Mr. Darcy. It is strange that you should mention it, for I was thinking of it myself. Your coat reminded me, sir — ‘Out, damned spot!’” He laughed ruefully, then stiffened up again as the correct gentleman’s gentleman he had been since Darcy’s return. “Your pardon, sir.”

“Not at all. But that was not the line of which I was thinking.” Darcy waited until Fletcher came round to flick the brush over the front of his coat. “Do you remember how the line goes, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs…’?”

“‘Something wicked this way comes,’ sir?” Fletcher asked, more than a flicker of interest sparking his face.

Darcy fixed him with a darkling eye. “Precisely, Fletcher.”

H
e was less than half the hall away from the drawing room when Darcy caught the first notes of music. The sound was unmistakably a harp. But as he drew closer to the doors, something about its resonance struck him as unusual. His curiosity roused by the quality of the sound as well as the plaintive melody being performed, he was almost impatient for the ubiquitous satin-clad servants to open the doors. They opened finally upon a small group posed, to Darcy’s surprise, not around the grand harp at the end of the room but in a circle near the hearth. Most of the listeners were gentlemen; the ladies having not yet descended, save for Lady Chelmsford and her sister, Lady Beatrice, who sat together on a settee whispering companionably. In contrast, Monmouth lounged against the mantel, while Chelmsford’s chair was drawn in among the shadows at the other side and Poole sat on the edge of a divan drawn up nearer to the hearth, the attention of all of them fixed upon the harpist at their center.

Lady Sylvanie acknowledged his approach with a cool, fleeting glance, but her fingers did not hesitate as she continued playing the music that had captured Darcy’s attention. The small harp cradled against her shoulder gleamed in the firelight. The light reflected along its sweeping curves seemed to quiver in response to the graceful pluck of each chord. Darcy’s gaze was drawn first to those shapely fingers as they called forth such sorrowing sweetness from the strings, but his attention was soon enticed along the performer’s lithe arms to the curve of her pale shoulders and on then to her face. The lady’s eyes were lightly closed but not, he guessed, in concentration upon her performance. Rather, he had the sense that, while they were closed to her surroundings, they opened instead to some secret place the music created. From the lift of one raven brow and the slight smile that graced her face, he suspected she was barely aware of her audience. Her smile deepened as she played, and Darcy, conscious of the sensation of having once again caught a glimpse of a fierce fairy princess, caught his breath.

He watched, fascinated, as her smile faded and her brow creased as if in pain. Her lips parted, and there poured forth from them a song whose words he could not understand but which he knew intuitively was a hymn of longing. The beauty of it swept over him before he’d time to prepare against it and forced him into a chair.
Gaelic
. His brain informed him of the language, but it enlightened him no further as to the song’s meaning. Instead, the lilting words and haunting tune worked on him, recalling to his mind images and emotions of times long past: the exhilaration of galloping the fields of Pemberley atop his first pony, the wonder of boyhood rambles in the wood beyond the park, the companionable feeling of the fishing expedition to Scotland with his father the summer before his first term away at school.

Then the music changed, slowing to an altogether different key, and he was at his mother’s bedside, his heart stunned with the aching fear of bidding her his last farewell and, deeper still, the feeling of utter loss at his father’s passing. Struggling to break from this turn in the tide of his emotion, Darcy closed his eyes in a determined frown against the music. As if in response to his wishes, the lady’s voice began to drop, gentling, fading into silence as her fingers passed lightly over the strings. Had she noticed his discomfort? Darcy looked up at her from under hooded lids but saw that her head was bowed over her instrument.

“Breathtaking!” Poole exclaimed, breaking the silence as he applauded Lady Sylvanie’s performance. “Absolutely marvelous!” The other gentlemen joined him in vigorous appreciation.

“What is it called, my Lady?” Monmouth addressed her still bowed head. “Is it Irish? It sounded Irish.” Darcy watched intently as Lady Sylvanie lifted her head, her face composed although her startling gray eyes were still withdrawn.

“Yes, my Lord,” came her reply in quiet clarity, “it is an Irish tune.” Her eyelashes swept suddenly up and captured Darcy’s stare before he could look away. The smile in them was of such understanding he was tempted to believe that she was, indeed, a fairy, knowing his very thoughts.

“‘Deirdre’s Lament,’” she continued, her eyes piercing Darcy’s, holding them.

“I beg your pardon?” Monmouth responded.

Lady Sylvanie lowered her lashes, releasing Darcy, before giving her attention fully to Monmouth. “It is called ‘Deirdre’s Lament,’ an old song, my Lord.” The door to the room opened, and her audience looked with her as Lady Felicia and Miss Farnsworth entered arm in arm, followed by Sayre, his lady, and at the last, Manning. With their appearance she made to put the harp from her and rise, but the protests of the three gentlemen near the fire stayed her. With an elegant nod of acquiescence, she brought the instrument to her breast and settled it against her shoulder once more as the newcomers found seats.

Darcy, too discomposed with what had passed between himself and the singer to give order to the variety of sensations flooding him, had not joined in their plea. Neither could he look away as her graceful fingers caressed the strings nor, even when her eyes closed as she gathered herself to begin. But the piece she offered them was entirely different from the previous ones. Its sprightly pace and bright notes suggested nothing more unsettling to Darcy than a country reel. The other listeners were impressed with the same notion as several pairs of feet tapped discreetly under gowns, and some of the gentlemen pounded out the lively beat on their knees. By her finish, Darcy could almost dismiss his former impressions as too fantastical, evidence that the events of the day had come near to exhausting his usual store of good sense.

Lady Sylvanie rose with becoming modesty and curtsied her acknowledgment of the enthusiastic applause, which Darcy joined. Beaming with approval, Sayre rose as well, took her hand, and presented her to the room. During this second round, Darcy noted, the enthusiasm of the ladies was somewhat restrained, their applause tepid, while they darted looks at the continued show of appreciation by the gentlemen. He grinned to himself and applauded more loudly.

“Delightful, charming, my dear!” Lord Sayre inclined to his half sister. “Now, upon whom shall I bestow your company for dinner? Who shall be the fortunate fellow?” Sayre took no notice of the lady, if she should express a preference, but looked about the room with the countenance of one who finally had found in his power the disposal of a coveted treat. His search passed briefly over his old hall mates and soon came to rest upon Darcy. “Darcy, it shall be you! Come, sir, and claim your lady, for supper is ready and you shall lead after me.”

Rising immediately, Darcy advanced to Sayre. A quick look at Lady Sylvanie revealed that she did not regret her brother’s choice, but neither could he have said she showed any sign of undue pleasure. “My lady.” He bowed formally and offered his arm. Her manner, though quite correct, served him a twinge of disappointment, and her cool acceptance of his arm niggled at him. After such a look as she had given him earlier, he had thought to see more animation.

He led her to their accorded place behind Sayre and his lady and followed them to the dining room, using their promenade as an opportunity to assess her further. Her hand was light upon his arm, and the blue-gray fabric of her gown fluttered slightly as they walked, drawing his attention to the pleasing curves of her form and the milky whiteness of her shoulders. Her richly plaited hair shone ebony in the hall candlelight, and a refreshing scent of mingled sweet herbs and new rain tickled his nostrils. No, he decided, he was not at all averse to Sayre’s choice. It was, in fact, exactly the opportunity he required to engage Lady Sylvanie further without that singling out of her which would only cause a wretched round of speculation. With these consoling thoughts, he relaxed a bit, and his interest in the woman at his side rose.

It was not until all were seated at table that the absence of Miss Avery and Trenholme was noticed. Her brother’s explanation that “Miss Avery did not feel well enough to come down to supper” was accepted with little comment. Sayre, by contrast, could supply no information about his brother and sent one of the servants up to inquire if Mr. Trenholme would be joining them before signaling the others that they should begin serving the meal.

The first course served, Darcy set himself to the delicate task of entertaining his companion. He knew he was intrigued by her, but of the lady’s willingness to be discovered he was less certain. Her behavior toward him had been all that was contradictory. One minute he was ignored and the next held in thrall by her Delphic eyes. Well, he must make a beginning…

“My lady…”

“My lady!” Manning’s voice from the other side of Lady Sylvanie clashed with his in a bid for her attention. His eyes met Manning’s briefly as she hesitated between them, but the rivalry Darcy expected to find in his expression was not there. Rather, he saw a man struggling with an unaccustomed emotion. Lady Sylvanie looked back to Darcy, a lift of her brow requesting his forbearance. He looked again at Manning and then nodded the withdrawal of his claim.

“My lady,” Manning began again, his voice low and strained, “please allow me to thank you once more. Your kindness to my sister has greatly eased her distress. I left her sleeping peacefully, a thing I had not thought possible after this afternoon!” He glanced over at his other sister with a grimace before turning back to Lady Sylvanie. “You were of vastly more comfort than ever Her Ladyship was.
She
would not stay with Bella above five minutes and then would only plague her with questions…make her tell the whole horrid thing if she could, stupid woman!” He paused, then ended softly, “I am indebted to you, ma’am.”

“Lord Manning.” Darcy could hear the lady’s dulcet reply clearly although she was turned away from him. “How could I not offer whatever comfort was in my power to give to your poor sister? Such distress must engage my sympathy. That my efforts are deemed helpful is all the thanks I could wish.”

“I shall not forget this,” Manning insisted, “nor your part in it, Darcy. Lord, what a business!” He sighed and lapsed into silence. Then, picking up a fork, he turned to his meal.

Lady Sylvanie’s brief, blush-tinged smile acknowledged the approval Darcy did not hide when she turned back to him, but the moment passed, and soon she was in full possession of herself. It was enough, though, to reveal to him that his companion had a woman’s heart as well as an artist’s soul, and he was pleased with his discoveries.

“We did not have the pleasure of your company this afternoon,” Darcy began. “I trust you are well recovered, my lady? Or perhaps you conceal your discomfort?” he asked, remembering her glance of pain before beginning her song.

“You are remembering my song, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes rested on him lightly. “Such perception! An uncommon quality in a man! Yes, I have recovered from my heedless indulgence of last night, I thank you. What you saw earlier was due entirely to the sad nature of the song.”

“You are easily touched by suffering?” he asked.

“Easily touched by suffering?” she returned, surprised. “I do not take your meaning, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy motioned to Manning on her other side. “Your waiting upon Miss Avery in such a manner as to earn Manning’s gratitude must prove you very intuitive in regard to that condition of the human heart.” She began to shake her head, refusing his compliment, but he would not allow it. He pursued his point. “And further, if a song can evoke in you another’s pain…You cannot deny that either, for I saw it.”

“I see it would be pointless to deny, for you will have it no other way, sir.” Lady Sylvanie looked discomfited as a blush colored her fair cheeks again. “But it would appear that we have unknowingly joined hands in calls upon our sympathy, Mr. Darcy. Miss Avery credited you with her rescue and told me of your tender calming of her hysterics.” She lifted her wineglass and looked speculatively at him over the rim. “Perhaps I am not the only one who is ‘easily touched by suffering.’”

“Perhaps.” He smiled back at her and decided to take a different tack. “Your music — I confess it is not what I am used to hearing in drawing rooms like that of Norwycke Castle.”

“I beg your pardon if you did not like it,” she answered.

“You mistake me, ma’am,” Darcy countered quickly, not certain whether she was teasing or he had offended. “Your music was all your brother declared and more. I liked it quite well. I meant that I have never seen a lady play a harp like that before, or sing in such a way. Usually the grand harp is used to exhibit one’s proficiency, and more formal arrangements are offered in company. Or am I mistaken in this as well?”

“You may declare it to be so with far more authority than I,” she acceded, her eyes flashing momentarily in Sayre’s direction. “I have not had the privilege of attending many drawing room recitals.” Darcy followed her look, not sure of what to reply. Why
had
Sayre kept his half sister virtually hidden from the world? Was it, as Lady Felicia had intimated, a means of spiting his father’s widow? If that were the case, why was she being introduced to Society now, at an age that was perilously close to being labeled ‘on the shelf’?

The doors to the dining room opened, saving him the necessity of a reply, for the attention of all the room was caught by the entrance of the missing Trenholme. Lady Sylvanie’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she and Darcy, with the others at table, took in his disheveled appearance. He had not changed out of his riding clothes, and his coat and waistcoat flapped unbuttoned about him. He had apparently worked at his neckcloth but with only that degree of success which had resulted in it loosening so that it sagged about his neck. Stumbling into the room, he almost went down before falling into his seat between Lady Beatrice and Lady Felicia, who nervously edged their chairs away from the strong odor of Blue Ruin that emanated from the house’s younger son.