The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy by Regina Jeffers

Samuel Darcy was my second cousin and as he passed nearly a month prior, I see no need for my wife or I to don black. The honor we do my cousin is to organize his affairs.”
    Carnes added, “I am familiar with the late Mr. Darcy. He was a great collector of the unusual.”
    Darcy gazed steadily at his tablemates. His eyes darkened, and his expression became serious. “Samuel Darcy was a man of science. A man of great intelligence, but also a man of compassion. My family was blessed to count him among us.”
    Later, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Darcy sought his wife among the chattering women. She thumbed through the sheet music left behind on the pianoforte. He looked over her shoulder at the song titles. “Do you intend to entertain us, my dear?”
    Elizabeth glanced up at him. “I did not wish to commit myself to the card tables,” she confided.
    Darcy asked softly, “Would you prefer to make our departure? I hold no qualms regarding making our apologies.”
    Elizabeth chose several pieces from the stack. “Perhaps you would join me on the bench, my husband. I will play if you will turn the pages.”
    â€œPromise me you will sing at least one,” he said intimately. “Your voice provides me such contentment. It is as if I hear home calling to me.”
    Elizabeth blushed. “Likely you mistake my caterwauling for ‘home’” she said, but he noted how his compliment had pleased her.
    Darcy sat close enough to whisper intimacies in her ear. Elizabeth smiled and giggled. Her skills on the pianoforte had improved dramatically, thanks to his sister. Georgiana practiced very constantly, and his sister’s influence showed in Elizabeth’s performance. “Well, Mr. Darcy, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”
    â€œI care not which song you choose; I care only for the woman who performs it. My wish is to remain by your side all evening, Lizzy,” he said huskily. “You mesmerize me as much as you do the rest of Mr. Tregonwell’s guests. You have captured the room’s complete attention.”
    Elizabeth shrugged away his praise. This was typical for his wife: Elizabeth set her shoulders to the task at hand, but he noted how her gaze flickered with unspoken passion. Her protest was reflexive. “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution. For example, my sisters Georgiana and Mary greatly outshine my effort.”
    â€œYet, neither possesses your easy and unaffected touch. Although another may eagerly succeed you at the instrument, your audience will appreciate your efforts with much more pleasure.”

    Although it was a Sunday, they had made an unannounced visit to Woodvine Hall. After having purposely stayed away for the two days, Elizabeth had insisted that they attend services in Cousin Samuel’s parish. “We could learn more of the Woodvine household if we mingle among the locals,” she assured Darcy. “You understand the ton and the maneuverings of the aristocracy, and I bow to your expertise, but in a country neighborhood, I hold the advantage. Although some believe,” she alluded to a remark he had once made during their days at Netherfield, “that in a country neighborhood one moves in a very confined and unvarying society, I contend that people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them forever. We may discover much by speaking to those with whom Cousin Samuel did business.”
    He regarded her in a searching manner. “Do you suppose