“What will I play for you?”
“I shall enjoy anything,” answered Elizabeth. “Let Mary choose. Her taste is far more discerning than mine.”
Mary clapped her hands, her face glowing with delight. Her words flowed from her in a rush of excitement. “I wish to hear Beethoven’s Sonata No. 21 in C Major, Opus 53. I have worked so hard on it, but I have never heard the piece as it should be played.”
She walked to stay a little way behind him and to the side, affording her a clear view of his hands. “Do you mind if I stand here? I wish to watch your fingers move.”
Landini nodded solemnly. “You must excuse me if I miss notes. I have not played this piece for many months. Movement I only.”
He bowed his head a moment, placed his hands on the keyboard, and attacked the keys.
Her heart raced the full ten minutes he played, his fingers moving at an impossible tempo across the instrument, his entire body involved in the music.
She felt what he felt. It was as if she had met her other half of herself.
Mary Bennet had always thought that every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason, yet there was no reasoning to explain what she felt for Signor Landini. She was rudderless, though complete for the first time in her life, and the idea was as terrifying as it was gloriously stimulating.
She knew what it meant. I am lost.
Chapter 3
Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
Mary rose early the next morning, glad to leave her bed of worried dreams. She attempted to calm herself by taking a bit more time with her toilette, but she failed in the attempt, instead raising her levels of anxiety by rushing through a cup of tea and two slices of toast.
Susan, her maid, shook her head as she clucked her disapproval. “Miss, you must slow down before you choke yourself. Why do you look so anxious?” She poured another cup of tea from a different pot. “Here, have a bit more tea while I arrange your hair. Try to drink it slowly.”
Mary closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Susan is right. I am a student. Signor Landini does not expect me to be very good. I have no reason to be fearful.
The young lady opened her eyes and took a sip of her tea. “Chamomile!” Mary exclaimed, smiling up at her maid who had taken up a brush to arrange her charge’s hair.
“Yes, chamomile with a bit of lavender. That blend works wonders for Mrs. Darcy when she gets a bit overwrought. Last night, she suggested you might want a cup of her special blend this morning.”
“I am not at all surprised. Lizzy and Jane have always been thoughtful of the feelings of others.” The knowledge that her sister had been concerned for her well-being warmed her heart.
Susan nodded. “Yes. The Mistress is a wonder. She is never idle like some who think so highly of themselves. She always has some project or other going to help the poor. The missions always call on her when there is a need, and she makes certain to answer.”
Mary smiled. “Lizzy has always been thus – taking food and clothing to our tenants, checking on them if they were sick, and making certain the children were taught to read and write. Jane and she did the work together. Before Lizzy married Mr. Darcy and Jane married Mr. Bingley, they took me with them to show me all there was to be done. I have found contentment and a sense of satisfaction in continuing their work. While I am away from Longbourn, the parson and his wife are teaching the children.”
Susan nodded. “You are like your sisters,” she said as she continued to help Mary dress.
“I would like to think so, but I fear I fall short so many times,” Mary answered.
Susan shook her head and smiled. “Just like them.
At half past eight, she was seated at Darcy’s Broadway grand, practicing the Beethoven sonata Landini had played at his concert. Her determination to complete her chosen task of memorizing the first movement drove her, and she lost all sense of the passage of time.
Mary worked diligently until, frustrated with her limitations, she slammed her hands on the keys. She removed her spectacles to rub the tears from her eyes, turning when she heard a noise behind her.
Landini walked up beside her, calmly pointing to the music. “Play it again.”
Mary lifted her eyeglasses, but Landini held up his hand.
“I want to see your eyes. You need those? Can you see me?”
She nodded. “I see you clearly.”
He frowned. “You can see? Non capisco. Why do you wear eyeglasses?”
“I need them for close work, like reading and sewing,” she replied with a sigh. “The farther away something is, the better I see it.”
“You see the music? You see the piano keys?”
“Yes,” she replied softly, lowering her gaze to the keyboard. He raised his eyebrows.
“Why wear eyeglasses, then? Tell me,” Landini commanded, lifting her chin with his index finger.
“You shall think me silly.”
“You are ’iding again!” he exclaimed, releasing her as his eyes reflected his pain. “From me,” he added in a low voice, betraying his pain and dissatisfaction.
She was perplexed. How could he know that? He is right, but even I did not realize the truth of the matter until he said it just now.
“I have worn spectacles for many years, but I met you only last night, Maestro. I started hiding when I was a child, but I shall try very hard not to hide from you anymore,” she said quietly. “You must be patient with me.”
He shook his head, then smiled. “I am not a patient man, but I try for you. Tell me if I am not patient.”
She smiled, standing to place her eyeglasses on the table beside the piano, then facing him. “English lesson one. Repeat after me: ‘I am not a patient man, but I shall try for you. Please, tell me if I am not patient.’”
Landini smiled. “Yes, little maestra. I am not a patient man. I shall try for you. Please tell me if I am not patient. Better?”
She chuckled. “Much better!”
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the bench. When she obeyed, he shook his head. “Stand!”
Mary stood, perplexed, and he moved the bench further away from the keyboard. “Sit down now.”
She complied, immediately understanding his reasoning. “This position is entirely different.”
Landini nodded, pulling a chair up to sit beside her. “Look at me. My arms are not bent at my waist. Move your arms out longer. Lean like this. Foot here. ’ands like this.”
Mary tried to follow his example. “Like this?”
“Your hands are wrong.” He reached for her right hand, pushing her wrist down and her knuckles up. “See? Curl your fingers.”
Landini moved her hand to the keyboard. “Both hands should be like that. Wrists are always the same level with the keyboard.”
She tried to follow his instructions, but she knew from his expression that she had not pleased him, so she moved to the left end of the bench, patting the right side.
“Maestro, please show me the correct way to place my hands.”
He did as she requested, explaining the technique by positioning his right hand and pointing to his fingers and wrist with his left.
Mary attempted to master the form a second time but raised her wrists too far to gain his approval.
“No! Not this,” he exclaimed, using his own hands in front of his chest to exaggerate her high-wristed hand position. “Stiff this way. Not free. No easy movement. Your music will suffer.”