Miss Darcy Falls in Love

by Sharon Lathan

  Sebastian did not answer immediately. He stepped onto a fallen log, tossing the shreds of bark from the twig he had been stripping into the bushes that covered the descending slope of Fourvière, and stared solemnly at the distant horizon. Georgiana began to fear she had angered him and was preparing to apologize when he spoke.

  “I ask those questions of myself frequently, Miss Darcy. I regret my father’s attitude, wish he were more understanding and supportive, and even feel angry upon occasion. Yet, logically, I know he has a point. What can I do with this… gift? Will I ever be able to use it other than to entertain my family and our guests?”

  The question hung on the air, Sebastian finally tossing the mutilated twig over the edge and turning to look at Georgiana, his gray eyes hard as slate and his voice firm. “I may not know my entire future, Miss Darcy, but I do know that someday I will be Lord Essenton, with an estate I love as my responsibility. I will have a wife and children. I will serve in the House of Lords. And I will play and compose music. I cannot separate and deny portions of who I am and all that is central to my happiness,” he finished with a shake of his head.

  They stared at each other for a long stretch. Sebastian’s countenance was as serious as she had ever seen. Gone was the amused twinkle that perpetually lit his gray eyes and the characteristic lilt to his full lips. Suddenly he appeared years older than three and twenty, intense and sure. It was as if he strained to communicate nonverbally to her, sensing that she would understand his heart. And the oddity was that she did, at least to an extent. As a woman with a set future before her, indulging in pointless whimsies, no matter how passionately felt, was easily tempered.

  Or were they?

  For years her dreams had been invaded with desires for more. Denial became second nature, knowing that for her, those dreams could never be realized. Mr. Butler, however, was a man, thus having no reason to reject his passions or accept inevitabilities.

  She nodded, holding his gaze. “I do understand, Mr. Butler. Perfectly. I applaud your persistence. Perhaps it is my naïveté and optimism, but I think your father will eventually understand and be as proud of you as the others in your family.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Someday.” Then he smiled, the jovial Mr. Butler she was beginning to know well snapping back into place. “Now, we should return to the others before they send out the hounds.”

  “Or eat all the food.”

  Their ride back across the hill’s crest was slower. They laughed and conversed, the subjects general and light, while inspecting the scenery and enjoying the fresh, crisp air. As expected, the others were already gathered about the stone ring and spread blankets, the food baskets open.

  “About time,” Lord de Marcov greeted them. “A moment later and all the food would have been gone.”

  “Not quite,” Yvette soothed, patting the covered basket situated between her and Zoë. “We made sure l’enfant ate not all of it.”

  “I may starve as a sacrifice, my heart, but for you I would perish with joy,” Frédéric countered, his hand spread over his heart as a pledge.

  Mademoiselle Gabriella de Marcov frowned at Frédéric’s fervent declaration, the former sitting on the same blanket Frédéric lay upon. The latter stretched in comfortable repose, smiling upward at Georgiana and seemingly ignoring the younger girl, but none were fooled by his nonchalance. Frédéric de Valday was a masculine magnet and was well aware of his appeal. And he loved it.

  “I, for one, appreciate your sacrifice, Monsieur de Valday.” Sebastian helped himself to a heaping plate of cold food, serving Georgiana before settling beside Gabriella with due pomp, the fifteen-year-old blushing prettily at the attention.

  “Butler, my sister reminded me of the small museum of musical instruments at the Catholic Church in Issoire. I have not been there in years, but Gabriella visited several months ago and said it has grown and been renovated with some remarkable pieces to view. I am sure I would be bored to tears, but imagine you and Mademoiselle Darcy would feel otherwise.”

  “If Mademoiselle de Marcov recommends it, then I trust her opinion. Miss Darcy?”

  “It sounds very interesting.”

  “Tomorrow, then? If you are not too busy preparing for your departure to Paris?”

  “Indeed, I was going to ask a similar question of you, sir. I believe you have a wedding to prepare for?”

  Vivienne waved her hand. “Please, take him away! Too many men underfoot are annoying. Adrien should go with you to keep me from strangling him!”

  “Exactly why I am going hunting tomorrow, dearest. Butler was invited, but heaven forbid he damage a digit or strain a wrist.”

  “Absolutely! Can you imagine the trouble I would be in if I could not play the wedding music? My sister would disown me and we would never have the opportunity to hunt together ever again. Better I practice the pieces and do nothing more strenuous than stroll through a dusty museum with Miss Darcy.”

  Chapter Four

  Composing a Friendship

  Long fingers moved effortlessly over the keys, the melody pouring from the piano harmonious and emotive. Georgiana stood to the side of the fine instrument, palms flat upon the gleaming wood to feel the vibration, eyes closed, and body swaying slightly as the music flowed through her. Sebastian Butler watched her with a pleased smile as he played.

  Composing and playing music was a compulsion for him, an obsession, if you will, that had been a driving force for as far back as his memories existed. Lady Essenton was musically inclined, quite skilled in fact, although unable to utilize her talent other than teaching her children. She had created an environment consisting of songs and instruments, demanding that all of her six children learn the basics. Lord Essenton agreed that the girls needed to play and sing, considering the accomplishment a worthy one for entertaining family and guests, but he discouraged his son from learning what he deemed a female pursuit.

  However, it was Sebastian who had shown a true gift, and by the time he was ten, his skill had far surpassed anyone else in the household. There were few instruments he could not play. Strings, drums, woodwinds, pipes—he was curious about everything, picking up any instrument he found and learning how to play whether by instruction or instinct. The pianoforte and piano were his chosen preferences, but he could manage nearly any instrument.

  Rare was the piece of music he was unable to master within days. His voice, a fluid baritone with an octave from high bass notes to low tenor, was an inborn gift that only improved with training. His compositions, while perhaps not brilliant or revolutionary, were beautiful and varied in style. For all of this, he owed the greatest debt to his mother, and now his grandmother as well. They had presented a united force against his father, who thought Sebastian’s musical studies a waste of time. They insisted he fulfill his dreams now, while the duty of estate management was not a burden he needed to bear. The current tenuous peace with his father had been harshly bought.

  Over time, he had discovered that as tremendous as his joy was in learning about and creating music, a higher pleasure was felt in observing the response of others as he performed. Being able to share the transcendent bliss he experienced via music was indescribable. Clearly Miss Darcy was enjoying the composition. He snuck a peak at Mrs. Annesley, Miss Darcy’s companion and chaperone, and his surge of contentment redoubled, as she was sitting in the far corner, embroidery forgotten in her lap and eyes glazed as she enjoyed the music.

  He lifted his voice, adding French lyrics of love and eternity. Georgiana opened her eyes, smiling happily as he completed the ballad. She clapped her hands, Sebastian bowing his head with a grin.

  “Do you think she will be pleased?”

  “Oh, how could she not? It was beautiful. Lady Vivienne will be overjoyed and weeping hysterically!”

  “That, I am afraid, is not a conclusive sign of praise, as my sentimental sister cries at the drop of a hat,” he said with a laugh. “She shall be a dewy mess all through the ceremony is my guess. Luc
kily, de Marcov is aware of her propensity for tears and loves her anyway, poor sod.”

  “Well, I am certain a portion shall be due to your song, Mr. Butler. Tomorrow will be a day of remembrance on numerous levels.”

  “I do wonder about this part,” he said, playing a set of chords. “It feels, not quite perfect. Like it needs a… dissonance.” Georgiana said the last word simultaneously, Sebastian meeting her eyes with an exuberant grin. “You hear it as well!”

  “Yes. Something to add an emphasis as to what is coming, to draw attention. But not too harsh, Mr. Butler.”

  “Indeed, no. And only for maybe two or three chords. How about this?” He played the section again, altering the notes ever so slightly, the subtle instability of the new arrangement underscored by the lifting tone and blending smoothly with the composition, while evoking a visceral charge in the listener. It was incredible and transformed the entire piece.

  “Bravo!” Georgiana clapped. “Stupendous. Your sister will indeed be a puddle of tears! May I, please?”

  “Of course!” He rose from the bench, waving his hand in front of the piano. “You know the piece as well as I, and it helps to hear it from another’s fingertips.” She assumed his place on the bench, fingers brushing over the keys as he leaned over her right shoulder to arrange the sheets of music properly. “There. Start from the top and play it through to the end, if you do not mind, Miss Darcy.”

  She nodded her head. “My pleasure,” she murmured, fingers testing the initial notes as she concentrated on the papers before her.

  Sebastian smiled, glancing downward as he straightened. Completely unconsciously, he had positioned himself so that he was afforded a direct view of her generous bosom, the soft swell and dark line of her cleavage readily visible. The sweet aroma of her flowery perfume rose from her ivory skin. A jolt surged through his body. Desire assaulted every muscle like a tidal wave that rushed and surged chaotically, settling in his gut and groin with a painful crash.

  He stifled a gasp, stepped hastily backward several paces, and willed his racing heart to slow. His reaction was so utterly unexpected that his befuddled mind froze. Numbed yet excruciatingly aroused, he could only breathe deeply and wait for the tremors to pass.

  She is beautiful, he reasoned, a fact he had recognized two years ago, at her debut ball in London at Darcy House. Sebastian Butler was assuredly a man who appreciated and desired those of the opposite sex, but for so long his focus has been on study. Matters of serious courtship were never considered, and sexuality was largely suppressed except for a handful of brief dalliances. His genial fraternization with persons of both genders was natural and rarely led to thoughts of sex. Never had he experienced a powerful reaction to a woman, as he had now twice with Miss Darcy, and it was disturbing.

  He closed his eyes, allowing the waves of music and her sweet soprano to wash the troubles away, swiftly deciding that it was nothing more than a purely physical response heightened by his long abstinence.

  Georgiana finished the cantata, turning to Mr. Butler for his opinion. He had regained his equilibrium, the flush of arousal passed, and he bowed appreciatively. “Beautiful! You should play it rather than I.”

  She stood, shaking her head and laughing. “I shall be in Paris while you are dazzling the wedding guests, Mr. Butler. Perhaps someday you can amuse me with the tale of how weepy the assembly was.”

  “I shall see you in Paris, will I not, Miss Darcy?” He ignored the faint tightness of dismay that banded about his chest and kept his friendly smile intact. “I promised to take you to the Conservatoire, remember?”

  “Indeed, you did, but I would not hold you to such a promise, sir, if your schedule does not permit excessive free time for recreation. Your studies are far more important than entertaining me.”

  “My studies will not commence in earnestness until autumn. Entertaining you is a prospect I hold in high regard, I promise. It will be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you. I do appreciate the offer and confess I would be saddened to miss a private tour of the Conservatoire. Nevertheless, it is undoubtedly fortunate I will be departing before long, since I fear my curiosity to hear of your every adventure is inexhaustible. If given free rein, I would monopolize your every waking minute with questions!”

  “And I would not complain,” he assured, resuming his seat at the pianoforte and pretending to study the keys while tapping an improvised tune. “Are you anxious to return to England? Are you weary of traveling?”

  “Not the traveling exactly,” she answered after a pause to consider. “I have thoroughly enjoyed seeing places I’ve previously only read about and meeting people from such diverse cultures. However, I have realized that I prefer familiarity surrounding me.”

  “You miss your home.”

  “I do. Pemberley and, to a lesser degree, Darcy House have been the only dwelling places I have ever known. Our hosts have been hospitable and our lodgings comfortable, for the most part. Yet there is a sense of security and belonging that I have not felt since leaving our shores. I suppose that sounds odd.”

  “No. I understand your meaning. I have felt the same unease upon occasion, and I experience my moments of pining for home. However, I started young with boarding school and then Oxford, always with the plan to travel abroad set within my mind and preparing my heart.”

  “Or perhaps you do possess a portion of wanderlust despite your denial.”

  “Indeed! Perhaps you are correct, but I shall avoid confronting the truth, in case I decide it is an attribute I possess and I am then struck with an uncontrollable urge to sail to the Orient!”

  “Ah, but this might be an excellent urge. You could learn from the Kunqu and Sichuan opera masters, incorporate German and French influences, thus creating a masterpiece unparalleled.”

  “And unwatchable, I am sure.” He shook his head, laughing and gazing at her with respect. “Chinese opera. Who would have thought? Is there anything you do not know, Miss Darcy?”

  “Very little,” she declared, hiding her smile, “and what I do not yet know I shall extract from your brain. I did warn you, Mr. Butler.”

  “Yes, you did. Extract as you wish and then use that knowledge to compose your own Chinese-German opera. I am beginning to believe you may be wrong in which of us should move about the world.”

  He wagged his finger at her, Georgiana batting it playfully away and shaking her head. “I confess that I imagine watching a Chinese opera would be a spectacular experience, but the lengthy journey there is utterly unappealing. The green fields of Derbyshire are calling to me. I shall leave the traveling to those better suited for the lifestyle—after I monopolize their precious time, that is.”

  He opened his mouth to assert that he considered spending time with her as precious, but the parlor door opened, revealing a footman.

  “Sir, the carriage is prepared and awaiting your pleasure.”

  The foul weather of the week before had left behind air that was crisp and replete with the fresh aromas of damp soil and washed foliage. It remained cold, but the sky was an endless blue, free of any clouds to obscure the sun’s warming rays, making the short ride a very pleasant one. The whitewashed, brick church was larger than either had expected based on de Marcov’s description. It was undoubtedly very old, the paint chipped in numerous places and gaps present in the mortar, but the garden was well tended and the pathways clear. Located on the northern edge of the small village of Issoire, on the outskirts of Lyon, it was surrounded by homes and businesses. The dirt and cobbled streets were far from busy, but enough people roamed about to indicate a thriving community.

  The musée de la musique was housed in a long, two-story building that had once been a convent, but new quarters for the resident nuns had been built some fifty years ago. The vacated rooms began as storage, the priests and nuns finally realizing that the accumulation of old instruments, sheet music, and other relics could be arranged into a semblance of order. The modest museum that began as a simple way
to increase the church’s revenue, rapidly evolved into a full-scale museum, as local residents, many who were exceedingly wealthy, donated to the collection.

  Georgiana and Mr. Butler were immediately impressed. “It will never compete with the Louvre, but it is nice,” Mr. Butler noted with wry humor and a grin.

  They wandered together, Mrs. Annesley allowing them the space to talk without fear of eavesdropping, although neither paid the companion much mind, their attention drawn to the displays and the conversation evoked.

  “Can you play the harpsichord, Miss Darcy?” he asked, as they stood before a seventeenth-century Blanchet.

  “Yes. We have one at Pemberley. My mother was quite adept, so I am told. I only vaguely remember her playing it. More of a sense, actually, most likely fabricated in my mind due to stories I have heard.”

  “Perhaps, although I believe music is a strong stimulus to memory. Meaning that, if your mother did play the harpsichord frequently when you were young, your memory is sparked when you hear the unique tones produced by the instrument.”

  “Yes, I can see the logic in that. Same with smells. I have always envisioned her when I smell roses, yet I was not told until years later that rose water was her favored perfume.”

  “Is that why you favor the fragrance of roses?”

  She blushed, surprised that he had noticed, and nodded.

  “I am sorry you lost your mother so young,” he said softly, his gaze tender. “I cannot imagine. Do you have vivid memories of her?”

  Georgiana shook her head. “Nothing vivid, sadly. Or at least I am unsure if what I recall are true remembrances or images conjured. There are several portraits within the house.” She paused, smiling fondly. “My father was deeply devoted to my mother and desired capturing her image as frequently as possible. Thus, my brother and I now have a wealth of reminders throughout the manor. I was only four when she died, but William was older and has forever sought to keep her alive for me. He recounts hundreds of stories, enumerating the tiniest details, conveying feelings as well as facts, all so clearly that sometimes it seems impossible that they are his memories and not mine.”