Page 40 of The Scarred Duchess
“What a bright future he shall have,” observed Lady Matlock.
Bennet agreed until his thoughts turned unpleasant, centring on the boy’s lineage—a detestable father and violent grandfather, both thankfully deceased, but what of his mother? Bennet felt nauseous. Every horrible possibility flashed before his eyes. “Pray tell me my cousin did not beget the son as his father did?”
Lord Matlock was grim. “Forgive me, I cannot.”
Bennet put his face into his hands. “To this day, I have lamented that my male ancestors did not have the foresight to protect their women properly.”
Lady Matlock coughed and poured him a fresh cup of tea.
Bennet looked up. “I beg your pardon, your ladyships. That was poorly done.”
Lady Catherine waved him off. “An oversight we know you shall never make with your own daughters.”
“Certainly not.”Certainly not.
“Mrs. Bennet, a word?”
The governess’s hands were clasped to her front. One wrung the other. “I am concerned with the music master’s demeanour towards Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary.”
Franny gasped. She held a hand to her throat. “In what manner?”
“I find his approach unduly harsh.”
What have I not seen?Franny delayed her self-recrimination. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Lawrence.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“What of Jane?”
Miss Lawrence chuckled. “Our Miss Bennet does not brook unpleasant behaviour.” She paused. “From anyone.”
“No, she does not, does she.”
“Again!” demanded Mr Primrose. Since Mrs Bennet’s warning, Bennet paid closer attention to the effete, slender man.
Elizabeth ran her fingers up and down the keyboard, practising scales. To Bennet’s untrained ear, it seemed she bungled a note here and there; his trained eye saw disinterest upon her face.
“Again, Miss Elizabeth. Pay attention to your fingering.” Mr Primrose rapped the pianoforte with his baton.
Bennet’s jaw tightened.Let us not be hasty, he lied to himself. Elizabeth replayed her scales at a slower pace. The results were more pleasing; her displeasure appeared to deepen.
“Miss Elizabeth, no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice.”
“I assure you, sir,” she replied, “I do not require such advice. I practise constantly.”
Mr Primrose sniffed. “I see I shall not have to repeat myself, then.”
“Again!” ordered Mr Primrose, this time looming over Bennet’s third daughter.
Mary pounded her fingers up and down the keyboard,practising scales. She bungled not one note to Bennet’s untrained ear, but his trained eye saw her lack of interest.
“Again, Miss Mary. With less force this time.” He rapped the pianoforte with his baton, causing Mary to flinch.
Bennet saw red.This has gone on far too long.
After dinner, a watchful Bennet spied Elizabeth and Mary bolting for the small parlour. He quietly followed and stood hidden at the door frame. The two started playing a Scotch reel together, sat side-by-side, one’s small hands overrunning the other in near perfection. A wrong note brought out a smirk; a discordant run generated a giggle.
“Girls,” he called softly.
