Posted on 2013-03-25

Outside, she observed, it was cool and rainy, a great change from the previous day's cloudless sky and brilliant sun. Inside, within the faded silk-covered walls, it was a morning just like any other. A morning identical to the one she passed yesterday. And just like the afternoon that lay ahead. And the one before that, and the one before that, and all the days which lay ahead until they went home and practiced the same pieces and read the same lessons and ate better-prepared food in more tastefully furnished rooms. It was all so unvarying, uninteresting. Making it worse was that here, each day, they were haunted by that imperious know-it-all, who endlessly corrected everyone, and ordered her--a gentleman's widow-- about as though she was a mere servant.

I abhor Kent, mused Mrs. Annesley. Especially in August.

Pling! Pling! Pling!

Ah. Georgiana was playing her harp. Wonderful. Now she'll complain about her callouses, and she'll cry and be fretful that her fingers will be unladylike and no handsome gentleman will ever wish to marry her. And she'll worry that her sullen, dull brother will be angry. As if he'd notice. He's never here. Off buying books or chasing skirts or checking horses' teeth with that scurrilous cousin who is always hanging around.

Plunggggggggggg!

Splendid. She broke a string. So much for the harp. Ugh. What time is it? Must we read Italian now? Or is it time to work on decorating screens? Or mending pens? Argh! Will I never finish this novel? Will I ever know what happens to sweet-voiced Lady Penelope and her dreadful, drippy-eyed sister?

Ta-da-ta-da-ta-da-dah-dah-dahhhhhhhhh, dah-dah-dah…

No! Not that one! Not again! How many times have I told her to warn me when she plays that tune….?!

The plump woman hurled herself out of her chair and across the room. She stormed down the grand hallway as speedily as her slippered feet would allow her to go.

"Miss Georgiana Darcy! Stop playing that insipid music right now!"

"But Mrs. Annesley, I love Für Elise. It makes me happy. It makes Fitzwilliam smile. He needs to smile, he is so sad and I am so lonely…."

"Yes, yes, yes, we all know that already," the older woman cried. "Must you endlessly prattle on about the sad and lonely life of the Darcy siblings? You are not in the workhouses, nor begging in the alleyways or digging in the soil for a spare seed. You are wealthy, well-educated and well-fed, and you live in an enormous home with 14 sitting rooms, two portrait galleries, and three pianofortes!"

Mrs. Annesley's voice rose in pitch and volume and her chubby hands flashed through the air as her fingers stabbed home her well-honed points. "Your gowns are made of the finest silks and laces by the finest hands in all of London! You will never be hungry nor want for fine wine or fine society."

The teenager stared up at her companion. Her lower lip trembled, her enormous--and sad--blue eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"But still…we are orphans."

Dear god in heaven. Will the self-pity never end? I have been too nice, too understanding. Mrs. Annesley closed her eyes, took a deep breath and inwardly counted to five. She clenched her fists so as not to shake the girl, and began to speak slowly and patiently as though to a half-wit. "Yes, Miss, you and your brother are parentless. Rich, nearly grown orphans who employ me to listen to you play, teach you to stab away at needlework, and watch you draw misshapen ducks and rabbits…only to be tortured by hearing Für Elise over and over and over again."

Mrs. Annesley shook her head. It is all so mind-numbingly dull. Will she never make a friend or be ready to have a season?

"But it is Beethoven's sad lament! Everyone says he wrote it for a woman who scorned his love," Georgiana cried. "And it is so very beautiful!"

So is that novel in which I never seem to get past page 92….

The sound of their raised voices roused the attention of some of Rosings' other occupants, who finally completed the long journey from the east wing pastry kitchen to the north wing music room.

"Georgie, oh Georgie!" cried a shrill voice. "Is everything all right in here?"

Oh no. From bad to worse. And I think I have a dull situation?

Anne DeBourgh skidded to a halt, dropping a bit of honey-covered seed cake in her wake. "Why did you stop playing? You know that Beethoven's sad lament is my favorite!"

She began wheezing on a wayward seed and waving her sticky fingers in the air. Anne's companion scurried in from the hallway and smacked her on the back. A loud cough, effected by the displacement of phlegm, echoed in the cavernous room. Mrs. Jenkinson shook her head. "Stop talking with your mouth full, girl. Put the plate down, with the cake still upon it, and then walk--never run--to make conversation.

"Be a lady," she scolded.

Anne glared at her and sniffed. "I am a lady by birth, so I shan't have to bother acting like one! My mother says so!

"Cousin Georgiana, why did you stop playing?" she whined. "You know I like to hear that song. It's part of my daily routine."

"Your routine? Your routine?" Mrs. Annesley roared. "It's driving me to Bedlam! That song is an insipid homage to a deaf man's misguided love. Not proper
for young ladies, nor well-written! Enough!"

"It is indeed mushy drivel. And not even historically accurate!" chided Mrs. Jenkinson.

Anne coughed and took a last bite of her cake. "I think it is lovely," she croaked, and continued licking her sticky fingers. "And ahead of its time."

The footman standing in the corner chimed in with a learned opinion. "Aye, a weak composition, indeed. It just prattles on," he asserted.

Hah! Mrs. Annesley bit back a smirk and nodded. "Yes, I am afraid it was ill-played indeed."

Her young charge glared at her in shock. "Sorry, Miss Georgiana. It was poor fingering. Even on his worst day in his cups, your Mr. Beethoven did not have fingers capable of such heinous playing."

She leveled a keen-eyed yet kindly stare at the girl. "If I must suffer through your hours of practices, day in and day out, you must improve. You must work at it, not torture the rest of us!"

"But I am a forsaken orphan, searching for love and acceptance in my music since my brother has abandoned me here in Kent." Georgie stared up at her companion and sent her a beseeching stare. "Cousin Anne and Mr. and Mrs. Collins like to hear me play."

The elder two ladies exchanged an amused look. "Yes," murmured Mrs. Annesley. "But you have no greater devotee than that Miss Bingley, do you?"

Georgiana nodded meekly.

"Is she the one who's after my Darcy?" Anne asked plaintively. "He is mine. Mummy says so." She wiped her fingers on her skirt and turned to Mrs. Jenkinson. "Shall we have some more tarts? I believe I smelled gooseberries.

"Georgie, play something merry and I shall bring you some treats." Anne tottered away, trailed by her companion.

"Lift your feet when you walk, Miss Anne. Stop scuffing your slippers before your mother hears you!"

"Oh do shut it, Jenksy."

The footman cleared his throat and followed the pantry-bound pair.

The pitiful pianoforte-playing orphan girl or the sweets-obsessed, self-proclaimed lady? Dull, yet the better half of the bargain.

Mrs. Annesley reached over her young charge and ran her finger along the keyboard. "Do go ahead and play. But no more of that song. Anything but that song."

Save it for your brother. He can take it. He already looks tortured, anyway.

Mrs. Annesley gifted the girl with a faint smile and headed back to the settee in the mustard-yellow sitting room which had been assigned to her by Lady Catherine. Georgiana watched her leave, then stretched her arms, flexed her fingers and began a furious search through her stacks of music sheets.

"Fine! You want fugues? I shall play you some Bach!"

Anticipating her charge's latent tantrum and the pounding fugue coming her way, Mrs. Annesley pushed a few bits of candlewax into her ears and settled into the lumpy, stale-smelling cushions.

Ah. Page 93!

A note:

Footmen know their stuff: The score for Bagatelle No. 25 in A Minor, aka Für Elise, was not published until 1867, 40 years after Beethoven's death. The discoverer of the piece affirmed that the original autographed manuscript, now lost, was dated April 27, 1810. But this is JAFF, so we make things up!