‘And you declared you detested Mr Darcy, and I had to scold you into behaving when you stood up to dance with him,’ said Charlotte, laughing a great deal. ‘Never did a couple seem less intended for union, he so haughty and you so indignant; and yet within less than a twelve-month, I was throwing rice at your wedding and wishing you joy.’
‘How you upbraided me, and rightly so, for my conduct that night. I was so blind, so stubborn! And Mr Collins! How he talked and talked that evening!’ Lizzy glanced sideways at her friend, to see if she was perhaps stretching the bounds of marital loyalty too far, but Charlotte was still smiling. ‘Such a flood of words, and almost all of them “Lady Catherine this” and “Rosings that”. Truly, Charlotte,’ she said more earnestly, ‘you were kinder to us both – to us all that night – than we deserved. So young and foolish we were. And I the most foolish of all.’
‘Nonsense, Eliza! Everyone was foolish that night. Never before in the history of balls did so many conspire to act as simpletons. Anyone would have thought we were competing with one another for a grand prize in foolishness. It is as your father always says: “We live to make sport for our neighbours.”’
This led to the exchange of news concerning their Meryton fellows, in whom Mrs Darcy maintained a lively interest. The Bennets’ Aunt Phillips had recently put Mrs Bennet’s nose out of joint by accidentally annexing a young clergyman who had taken up a living nearby, and sending him in the direction of Charlotte’s sister Maria. The mistress of Longbourn had considered that he would do very well for her daughter Mary, but Aunt Phillips had by mischance sent her husband to invite the newcomer to a supper party at her home the same night Mary was kept from attending by a sore throat; she had compounded this error by carelessly inviting Maria to be present and, in a trice, the damage was done. Both Charlotte and Lizzy were able to laugh heartily at this tale, of which each had heard sufficient partial accounts to piece together a whole. Time, loss, and, in Elizabeth’s case, elevation, had softened their awkwardness on the topic of clerical courtships as they pertained to the Bennet and Lucas families.
‘Mary cares not a jot, however,’ Lizzy explained. ‘She is in raptures because she is at last an Author; she wrote an improving book, of mottoes and strictures and deep thoughts, and she would have no peace, nor give anyone in her family peace, unless it were published. My father sent it to Mr Cadell, a publisher in London, but he declined by return of post. I must confess I used my influence with my husband, and he sent the manuscript to another publisher with a note he signed himself. This time, it was accepted. Mary was paid eighty-five pounds for it! And has been beside herself with joy and pride ever since. I am surprised she has not yet sent you a copy. Her friends and family have all been importuned to buy the work.’
Charlotte murmured an enquiry about Lizzy’s two youngest sisters.
‘Oh, Lydia!’ Mrs Darcy laughed, then sighed. ‘I swear, she is incorrigible.’
Charlotte was familiar with the events that had transpired a few years earlier: Napoleon Bonaparte’s penchant for escaping from imprisonment in exile and belligerently dragging the Continent into repeated wars had produced consequences that extended as far as the Bennet family. Lydia’s husband, a Mr Wickham who had once served in the—regiment, had gone off to fight in the final outbreak of hostilities in France, declaring a calling to honour and patriotic duty not that easily discerned in his character, and likely to stem from disenchantment with his marital state. Here he had disappeared – either killed or deserted, it was impossible to tell – at some point during the Battle of Waterloo. There was no certainty about his fate because his commanding officer, himself mortally injured, had penned a hasty note to say that he feared Mr Wickham was slain in battle, but no reliable reports had yet reached him. No body was ever found, nor any person who could give testimony, and not all the combined powers of Mr Darcy, Mr Bennet, nor even Colonel Fitzwilliam, had been enough to establish the facts of the matter. It had seemed kindest to assume that Mrs Wickham had been rendered a widow, and the doors of Longbourn, Hartscrane (the Bingleys’ establishment near the Derbyshire town of Ashbourne), and Pemberley were all immediately thrown open to her.
Lydia, while piteously declaring that she would never survive without the affection and support of her family, refused to quit the lodging-house where she had taken up residence while her husband was fighting abroad. Her elder sisters assumed, from past experience, that this reluctance to move most likely arose from debts the couple had incurred, which would no doubt have to be discharged before Lydia could change quarters; they prepared their purses accordingly.
Mrs Bennet flew to her bereft daughter’s side, and the pair spent a fortnight indulging in noisy and extensive expressions of grief before the mother reluctantly returned home, where she continued to write letters pressing her youngest daughter to return to the comforting bosom of her family. However, not six weeks passed before the news arrived that Lydia had remarried – the very innkeeper of the hostelry at which she was fixed. She declared herself the luckiest woman alive to have secured such another fine husband and, with her usual lack of tact, boasted of having achieved two husbands, all before the age of twenty-one, while her sisters Kitty and Mary were yet old maids. It did seem a good match, though, with Lydia’s habitual good humour and perennial liveliness in company proving an asset in her unexpected new path in life.
‘It does not seem fair, does it?’ said Lizzy. ‘To think that Mr Darcy once paid such a sum to rescue her reputation! And here she is, twice-married, entertaining strangers and pouring port at The Craven Heifer, flourishing like the green bay tree – and because of her history, my father will still barely allow poor Kitty to leave the house, unless it is to visit me or Jane.’
Charlotte could not contain another burst of mirth. ‘Never before was a blameless party so thoroughly punished for the sins of another, but only if you consider visits here, or to the Bingleys, a punishment. Lucky Kitty, I would say. Truly, Eliza, it is a great pleasure to be here. And not because of the grand apartments and grounds, but because of the sense of welcome I feel, the peace, the time to reflect. I cannot think when I last enjoyed such repose.’
Her friend squeezed her hand affectionately: ‘I am glad you find it peaceful here, my dear Charlotte, and hope that it provides balm for your heart. It is restful – is it not? – being here together, like our maiden days. I am grateful for your company, and I feel better for your presence, and that of the girls. It was kind of you to come.’
CHAPTER X
WITH THEIR DAYS AT PEMBERLEY settling into a routine, Charlotte, for the first time in her life, found herself at leisure – a novel sensation. One morning Mrs Darcy was closeted with the housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, checking the month’s accounts, and a nursemaid whose brother was a shepherd on the estate had taken the girls to visit his flock, and witness the antics of the lambs.
Charlotte had already taken her customary walk around the grounds, and now she sat by an unnecessary fire in one of the grand parlours, all ruddy wood panelling and chinoiserie. She yawned and stretched. She had written all her letters – Pemberley had a supply of paper and ink superior in both quantity and quality to anything she had ever seen – prompting her to write to her mother and Maria rather more frequently than she did when at home. Now she found herself with nothing to do. Idleness was anathema to her, and it occurred to her that she had the opportunity to practise her music for the first time in years. She considered which instrument should be subjected to her stumbling fingers. Pemberley had at least four: an imposing ebony six-octave grand piano in the Great Hall, a slightly smaller Broadway in the saloon, a beautifully painted harpsichord considered the property of Georgiana, and an older and inferior pianoforte in the schoolroom that had once been the domain of governesses.
Settling on the most humble piano as her goal, and not wanting her rusty notes to be heard by others, Charlotte climbed the stairs to the schoolroom and let herself in. As she closed the door behind her, she heard a muffl
ed string of words she could not understand and a slight thump. To her astonishment, a pair of legs were to be seen sticking out from under the erstwhile governesses’ instrument. Too dumbfounded to give voice to her surprise, she watched as the legs – which were male – wriggled out from under the piano, proving to be attached to a complete stranger.
She and the man stared at each other as he scrambled to his feet, both of them momentarily robbed of the power of speech. His clothing was that of a gentleman, she thought, but he was underdressed, wearing only a white linen blouson shirt with no cravat or waistcoat, and breeches of an unfamiliar cut that were attached to tooled leather straps that ran up and over his shoulders. He was dark and slender, with a nose that beaked from his face, and a close-cropped beard, itself something that made him seem otherworldly, a character from a play of past centuries.
They both spoke at once, her to excuse her intrusion, him to apologise for startling her, and as soon as he spoke, the strangeness of his appearance was explained; he was clearly a foreigner. This in itself made him an object of interest, and Charlotte longed to know more.
The man bowed, introducing himself as Herr Rosenstein, a musician from Salzburg in Austria. His father had built the harpsichord Mr Darcy had purchased for Georgiana, an instrument of great value and delicacy, and the dampness of the English weather had caused the strings to go out of tune. To remedy this fault, it had then been stood too close to the fire, and this had cracked the wood of the belly underneath. The senior Rosenstein now being too advanced in age to travel to assess the damage and make the repairs, the son had been summoned to attempt the restoration; also to tune the other pianos in the house, as well as Georgiana’s harp. These painstaking operations promised to take some time. Mr Darcy’s plan was that Georgiana would find her instruments in perfect working, or rather playing, order upon her return from her sojourn abroad.
Charlotte now understood why she had not yet met the stranger; he was in the nebulous position of being neither a servant nor a guest. His role in the household was akin to that of a tutor, or an artist employed to paint a portrait.
He was clearly a man of education and some refinement; his English was excellent, with only a slight roughness on the ‘r’s and a crispness at the end of his words to indicate that it was not his mother tongue. She wondered idly where he was quartered – surely not with the servants? – and where he ate his meals. She was surprised not to have at least seen him at morning prayers, the one occasion when the family and all the staff gathered in the chapel, the family in the balcony seats and the staff standing in respectful rows on the chequered floor below.
‘You had a purpose in coming here, madam. I hope I have not disrupted your plans. And might I know your name?’
Charlotte stumbled through her own introductions, explaining that she was a friend of Mrs Darcy’s, and that she had come in search of an instrument with the notion of playing a little.
‘But why not address one of the pianos in the main part of the house?’ he enquired. ‘I am sure the family will have no objections.’ This obliged Charlotte to explain that she had played little other than nursery rhymes in years, and was reluctant to entertain any audience.
‘Ah! You wish to play in solitude, not perform,’ he said. ‘If you like, I can retire and leave you to test your fingers in peace.’
Charlotte hesitated. Now that she looked around, the tools of his trade were present in an open leather box, and a coat of a foreign cut hung over a chair. She did not wish to disrupt the man’s work, and began to demur.
‘Or perhaps I should play something for you?’ said Herr Rosenstein. Without waiting for a reply, he drew up a stool, laid his hands on the keys and began to play without sheet music, a gentle piece that was quite unlike anything Charlotte had ever heard before. The principal melodic line soon exploded into a blizzard of notes, but she could hear the tune emanating from within the rapidly circling embellishments, still gentle, still yearning, even as the brighter, swifter notes clamoured around them. She drew closer, and was struck by the musician’s hands – long and delicate-fingered, yet flecked with small scars that suggested work with lathe and saw.
He played on, and Charlotte shut her eyes against the sun slowly stirring the dust motes, the man’s swift and sure ivory-coloured fingers, giving herself over entirely to the bright flurries of sound, as clear and satisfying as running water.
When at last there was silence, she was reluctant to break it, but had to ask: ‘What music was that?’
‘A sonata by Herr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in the key of A: variations on a theme. He was Austria’s greatest composer, I believe. Possibly the greatest the world will ever see. He was a friend of my father’s, and he would sometimes perform in our home. One of my earliest and fondest memories is of sitting under a piano as he sat down to play. How astonished and delighted I was as the notes came pouring down around me like a shower of gold! It made a strong impression on my tender mind. Sadly, it was but months before he died, at the age of only thirty-five – far too young, especially for one of such genius.’
Charlotte, struck by the sound of the foreign words in his mouth, offered him her condolences on the loss of his colleague. But she could not stay any longer; the man had work to do. But before she could withdraw, he spoke her thoughts: ‘Frau Collins, forgive me, but I have tasks I must complete this afternoon. I hope we shall meet again soon. You now owe me a recital.’
Intrigued by her unorthodox encounter, Charlotte went in search of Elizabeth to recount her meeting with Herr Rosenstein, and pressed her friend for details.
‘Oh!’ said Lizzy, upon hearing of the impromptu concert. ‘I should have thought of asking him to play for us earlier. The children will enjoy listening to him. He is quite the musician. He plays the violin too, and the English flute also, although perhaps not as well as he does the pianoforte. If you would like to hear more, I shall ask him to join us after dinner tomorrow. Or let us not stand upon ceremony: we can have a cold collation in the saloon – we have a good instrument there – and see if he will attend. He has been taking his meals in his quarters, but he seems very obliging. I am sure he will have no objection to joining us. He can entertain us all, and we can teach your daughters some country dances.’
It transpired that the elder Rosenstein and Mr Darcy’s father had formed a significant attachment to one another, the differences in language, rank, and nationality notwithstanding. A shared appreciation of the arts of music and interest in the construction and care of fine instruments had led the two men to take pleasure in each other’s company.
The younger Rosenstein had accompanied his father on his last two trips to England, but while no similar friendship sprang up between the two sons, who had little in common, a mutual goodwill and esteem for the abilities of the other persisted, and had established a foundation for cordial relations, if not actual closeness. This made a visit to Pemberley no hardship for the younger musician, whose pleasure in accepting the commission was no doubt influenced by agreeable memories of his previous stays and treatment there. He had the freedom of the library and public rooms, and seemed happy to join in such society as was on offer; but was apparently equally content to closet himself away with his instruments and apply himself to his work.
The following day, he joined the women and children at an informal early supper in the red saloon, as suggested by Mrs Darcy. The little girls, already full of the importance of dining in adult company, were squeaking with excitement at the prospect of music and dancing to follow, and Herr Rosenstein showed a good-natured patience in responding to their many questions. He brought a small tambour to show the children, and this was promptly commandeered by Laura, while Sarah essayed a scrape on his fiddle, a performance that had the resident tabby fleeing the room in outrage.
After a simple repast of soup, buns, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by wine for the adults and milk for the children, Sarah was especially delighted when her new friend lay down on the floor and slid under t
he pianoforte to show her how the guts of the instrument operated. She wriggled underneath to join him while her sister undertook the daintier end of the operation by kneeling on the piano stool and plinking away at the keyboard with gusto. Charlotte opened her mouth to issue a caution for her elder daughter’s clothing, then held her peace. What did a little dust matter?
Besides, there was something both comical and touching in the picture presented of the two sets of legs, both narrow and lanky, but otherwise dramatically different in size and dress, emerging from under the piano. The thought came that Tom would have loved an occasion like this, the noise and the jollity, the sense of unexpected festivity. She batted it away as firmly as she could, and called encouragement to Laura, who was demanding that her mama admire her prowess on the keys.
It was with reluctance that the children gave up their respective stations, and allowed the musician to resume control of the instrument, but Elizabeth’s sly bribe of grapes did the trick. Charlotte found herself longing to hear the piece Herr Rosenstein had played for her the day before, at the same time as being reluctant to request it. Part of her wanted to keep it locked in her head along with the memory of the dust motes that had wheeled as golden as the notes to which she had been in thrall.
As it happened, Herr Rosenstein confined himself to playing music suited to children: gay tunes and marches, short pieces and songs they could all enjoy. Some tunes she recognised, but he sang the words, in a mild and pleasant tenor voice, in German, while her daughters sang along in English. Lizzy was also prevailed upon to sing for the company, laughingly claiming that she might as well take advantage of a skilled accompanist.
After Lizzy had performed several airs, to the enjoyment of all, each woman commandeered a child and led them through the steps of some basic country dances. They discovered that even if Herr Rosenstein did not know the necessary music, if they hummed or sang the tunes, he could generate a passable replica once he had mastered the required rhythm. And rhythm was mostly what the little girls needed, as their attempts to learn the steps were punctuated by outbursts of mirth at the sight of the older women undertaking the role of male dancers. Charlotte’s attempts at bowing in particular were met with gleeful requests for repetition.
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