The Longbourn auditorium was an old building, with stained-glass windows and a large balcony. All of our performances for music and drama were held in this space and it seated nearly five hundred people. It was tradition for parents to come up for the recital and there was always a lavish reception afterward.

I sat by myself backstage in a practice room with my headphones on, listening to Rhapsody. Our performance was the finale for the evening, and I didn't want to get distracted by listening to the various performances by members of the orchestra and the other piano students.

My legs began to twitch. I closed my eyes and tried some breathing exercises to calm down. I nearly screamed out when someone tapped me on the shoulder to notify me that it was time.

We were all dressed in floor-length black dresses. I had my hair tied back in a loose bun that Jane had done for me.

I waited in the wings as the members of the orchestra took their places to the applause of the audience. Mrs. Gardiner then took center stage and motioned for me to make my entrance.

I tried to walk out with confidence, but felt my nerves increase with each step. I looked up toward the lights as I took my bow. The lights temporarily blinded me so I couldn't see the audience. The white light that was burned into my gaze gave me something to concentrate on as I sat down at the piano.

I gently guided my hands up and down the keyboard. Mrs. Gardiner was waiting for my signal to start, and I needed this quick moment to re-familiarize myself with the keys. I'd been playing piano for more than a decade, but this little ritual was something I did before every performance. I wanted to, in some way, connect with the instrument before I played.

I looked at Mrs. Gardiner and nodded. She held up her baton and the entire orchestra flipped their instruments to attention. At that very moment, I was nearly bursting with a desire to start. The nerves subsided and this gush of energy rushed forth as I eagerly anticipated the motion of the baton that would start the piece.

Mrs. Gardiner flicked the baton down. The strings started to play and I answered with chords. The beginning was the easiest (if anything by Rachmaninoff could be considered easy) and soon I found myself in a wonderful zone where I let my fingers do what I'd practiced them to do. They happily slid across the piano as I gave myself over to the music.

This was when I truly felt alive. No matter if I was answering the orchestra with runs or large bundles of notes or quietly building anticipation for the next variation, there was nowhere else I wanted to be but at Longbourn, on that stage, with this orchestra.

Nearly fifteen minutes into the piece, as I started in by myself on the eighteenth variation, the audience began to applaud. This section was my favorite, not just because it was featured in many romantic movies, but it was beautiful. When the orchestra joined in with me, I felt a lump in my throat.

As we finished that section, I took a deep breath. I needed every ounce of energy and concentration to get through the end.

As I began to tackle Rachmaninoff's challenging runs, a trickle of sweat began to make its way down the side of my face. I might not have even breathed for the last minute or so while I hammered away at the keyboard. Every note rang out and I leaned forward into the keys. It was a race to the finish, and after one last run and the crescendo of the orchestra, all fell silent as I played the last two chords.

I dropped my hands into my lap from exhaustion. The audience erupted in applause. I looked at Mrs. Gardiner and she motioned for me to stand up. As I did, she enveloped me in a huge hug. "Thank you, Elizabeth," she whispered in my ear. "That was wonderful!"

I nodded and went to shake the hands of the two first-chair violinists, Mary and Kitty, which was customary when playing with an orchestra.

I finally faced the audience and noticed they were on their feet. I bowed and motioned toward the orchestra, who then stood up.

For the first time, I surveyed the audience. I did notice that not everybody was standing; several students from my classes sat looking completely bored, but their parents seemed impressed.

And then in the third row, I saw my parents, both with tears streaming down their faces. I nearly started to sob, but the sight of Darcy, Georgiana, and their mom standing next to my parents shocked the tears from my system.

30.

THE RECEPTION WAS HELD IN FOUNDERS HALL, THE SAME place the mixer had been at the beginning of the semester. It was beautifully decorated with flowers and candles. I was having difficulty finding my parents; anytime I tried to locate them, someone would come up and congratulate me. Granted, the majority of people coming up to me were adults; even an inspiring performance of Rachmaninoff wasn't going to erase the scholarship stamp across my face.

After profusely thanking the headmistress for her kind words, I made a beeline for the food, as I knew that was where my dad would most likely be.

"There you are!" he exclaimed while holding a plate full of crudites.

Mom came rushing over and hugged me tightly. "Oh, Lizzie!" I felt my chin twitch as she held on to me. "You were wonderful. Your father and I are so proud of you."

Dad leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Amazing. I have no idea where you get any of your talent. It certainly isn't from either of us."

Mom hit him. "You promised you wouldn't embarrass her."

My parents were always overly sensitive about their behavior at Longbourn. They'd never monitored themselves when I had been at school back home, and they certainly didn't care about embarrassing me in front of my Hoboken friends, but I think the Longbourn parents made them even more uncomfortable than they made me.