Portraits of Pemberley
Carrie Mollenkopf
Additional titles by Carrie Mollenkopf
The Redemption of Caroline Bingley
The Vocation of Mary Bennet
The Soulmate of Kitty Bennet
The Stubborn Pride of Lydia Bennet
Lizzie Bennet’s Choice
Elizabeth of Pemberley
Matchmaking at Pemberley
Darcy’s Heart
Preserving Pemberley
Refusing Mr. Collins
The Supernatural
The Transformation of Georgiana Darcy
In the Shadows of Pemberley
Mary of Longbourn Series
Mary Bennet and the Longbourn Heiress
Mary Bennet and the Longbourn Tutor
Mary Bennet and the Return of the Soldier
Mary Bennet and the Substitute Vicar
~Prologue~
Pemberley 1611…
Isabel Darcy carried the carefully wrapped package through the blackness of the night, taking extra care to not make a single noise. It had been difficult enough to explain its arrival without having to unwrap it before her parents. Now, with the contents known, she knew that it must be hidden away forever. At first, Isabel thought to burn the painting, but despite her aching heart, she could not bear to part with the sole memory of him. Having removed the simple frame, the portrait was now slim as her finger, it should be easy to tuck it away from the eyes of those who would condemn her actions. But those were the same people who had sold her to the highest bidder. On the morrow, Isabel Darcy was to be married to a stranger to ally two powerful families. Such was the way of the world for women in her situation, and she had pretended to accept her fate. The prospect of an arranged marriage had justified what she had done despite the potential of scandal. Happiness had to be stolen in small moments. She would have to live on the love she had known in Italy, its evidence in her hands. Taking the portrait, she gazed at it one last time, fixing the images in her mind. His features were clear and vibrant as if living flesh, but her fingers only felt the cold dry paint, paralleling the feeling in her heart. Tucking the canvas carefully away, she wiped a single tear that escaped her eyes. It was unlikely that Isabel would ever see it again, or Pemberley, but if ever possible, she would return and the painting could be retrieved from its haven. Until then, it was safe… hidden in plain sight.
~One~
Pemberley 1815…
Elizabeth Bennet Darcy walked slowly down the long gallery that housed the visual images depicting generations of Darcys. As she paused before the frames, it was as if each pair of eyes was staring back, studying her in return. Imagining they could speak, Elizabeth pondered what opinions were held by her husband’s forebears. Were they pleased with the new mistress or did they find fault? Some of the portraits went back hundreds of years, having been installed in the current house long after the first had been razed during the early 14th century. Pemberley, as it now stood, was built upon the remaining foundations of a Medieval fortress. Its stones had been repurposed in the great hall floor and fireplace. Of the drafty damp walls and rush strewn chambers, no trace could be found. The current residence was a thing of true splendor, one that Elizabeth hoped she would serve well during her life, continuing the legacy for the next generation. As of yet, her own likeness did not grace these walls, it was a point of debate she held with Fitzwilliam. Having been married nearly a year already, he had been pressing her to choose an artist and sit for her portrait. Just that morning, Darcy had mentioned it again.
“It really is long past time that you had your portrait painted. The family gallery is incomplete without you.”
“It is already filled. There isn’t any space for me,” she replied lightheartedly in excuse. Truth be told, Elizabeth hated the prospect of sitting still for hours only to have her likeness recorded. There was so much about her new home that had yet to be discovered. Just the other day, she had explored the former nurseries hoping that they would be needed in the near future. Although it was early in their marriage, many female acquaintances had discreetly broached the subject of children. An estate the magnitude of Pemberley needed an heir, and the sooner the better. While Elizabeth loved children, she was in no hurry to begin the process. For now, she was content to simply enjoy the company of her husband. With each passing day, she grew to know more of his preferences. No man was perfect, but the Master of Pemberley was about as close as she could imagine. In spite of Darcy’s fine attributes, or perhaps because of them, he also possessed a stubborn streak that was nearly as fierce as her own. This was exacerbated by a dedication to preserving may of Pemberley’s traditions. Of late, the portrait gallery, and its lack of her image, seemed foremost in his mind. Sighing, Elizabeth knew she would concede eventually. Perhaps it was best to be done with the ordeal while she was young. After all, who wanted to be remembered for posterity in their dotage? As it was, the fine food and drink she had consumed over the past months had added a few pounds to her already voluptuous figure. If not careful, the possibility of becoming rather stout loomed precariously. Suppressing a grimace, she turned to her husband with a smile, but he was not accepting of any attempt at delay.
“We will make room. Besides, it is past time for a solid cleaning. Some of the portraits are rather fragile. It is one of the household tasks that I do not leave to the servants. If a family heirloom is to be accidentally destroyed, it is best done by my clumsy hands.”
“You are hardly what I would call clumsy! But, if you can trust my own slippery fingers, I will be happy to assist. I want to know more about the Darcys that lived here before. There must be many fascinating stories.”
“Oh, there are, some bordering on scandalous. As a child, I used to spend hours in that gallery, wishing they could speak to me, but none ever did. And now, it is time that the newest mistress of Pemberley joined them.”
“Scandalous? Say it is not so. I cannot imagine any Darcy embroiled in anything inappropriate… or at least, not by choice,” she teased, but for a moment, her husband’s eyes seemed to darken, as if remembering something he did not wish to share.
“All families have their secrets, fortunately you already know mine. But I must say, the Darcy family has had its fair share of colorful characters.”
To this acknowledgement, Elizabeth refrained from comment. She seriously doubted that any Darcy had ever caused a scandal. Besides, it would not release her from the present obligation and there would be plenty of time for her to learn more about family history later.
“I suppose you are right, but how does one go about engaging a portrait artist? I hardly believe that they are waiting at employment agencies. Do we place an advertisement?”
Darcy furrowed his brows in thought. It had been nearly a decade since his own sitting. To be honest, he had not the slightest idea. At the time, he too had balked at the time lost, but the portrait, along with a matching miniature, were a fair likeness. With the loss of his father barely a year later, Darcy now cherished the portraits of his parents. It was all he had left when memory dimmed. His sister Georgiana, only a child when their mother died, had no memory at all, save her portrait in the gallery. Longevity was not a guarantee.
“I don’t really know either, the person that painted mine was rather up in years at the time and it is unlikely that he is still taking on work, but as we will be in London next month, perhaps a visit to an old schoolmate of mine is in order. His name is Matthew Jennings and is employed by the Royal Museum of Art in acquisitions and preservation. He does not paint much himself now, but may be able to recommend someone.”
“I have always wanted to visit that museum. Does it not possess one of the finest Renaissance collect
ions?”
“Indeed, as well as exhibits of newer artists. You may be able to see the existing works of potential portraitists and be able to choose whose style you prefer. As art is a profession that is purely commission based, some of them may be interested in taking the position. Portraits can take weeks to complete, supplying necessary income. We shall make a day of it.”
“It sounds a bit like shopping for a new gown.”
“In some ways it is, I suppose a new gown will also be in order…special, for the portrait.”
“Is that an attempt at bribery Mr. Darcy?”
“Not at all, but if it gets you to agree, then I shall buy you a hundred!”
~Two~
The weeks before the departure to London were filled with activity and in an effort to prod his wife in to compliance, Darcy began the tedious job of tending to the care of his ancestors in the gallery. Any time there was the need for space, the oldest portraits were removed and relocated to the guest wing. As it had been some years, every portrait was in need of careful cleaning and assessment before being moved.
“Some of the older ones require restoration as well. Perhaps whomever we engage to do yours will have the required skill. The paints often demand special materials to match the antiquated processes. Of course, it can never truly be as the original intended.”
“I had no idea that you were so well versed in art.”
“Oh, at one time, and mind you it was quite a while ago, I fancied myself a budding artist. In my delusions of grandeur, I imagined that all I needed was a bit of paint and a muse. Unfortunately, I am completely lacking in talent, but the phase did instill a greater respect for those who do. I must content myself with preservation of what I cannot create.”
“I have often felt that way about many things… embroidery for one. I fear that you have saddled yourself with a wife rather deficient in accomplishments.”
“Nonsense, you are perfection to me.”
Elizabeth swatted his arm and rolled her eyes. Love truly must be blind, but it did make her feel wonderful to hear the words. They had reached the far end of the gallery. This was where the oldest portraits now awaited their banishment. Elizabeth felt like she was some sort of usurper, forcing an aging monarch from their rightful place, but Darcy was not to be dissuaded.
“Eventually, when she reaches the age of one and twenty, Georgiana must also suffer the same ordeal. It is tradition to have those born at Pemberley sit for their portrait at that time.”
“What of children? Are there no images of them?”
“Unfortunately, not. A tragedy to be sure, but imagine trying to convince them to sit still for so long? However, there are a few that do not confirm to that. This one is such. I believe this was painted when she was only fifteen.”
Darcy gestured to a very sad-faced young woman dressed in the style of Elizabeth I. More child than woman, her heavy blue velvet gown was strung with seed pearls and a wide lace ruff. But it was not the attire that drew so much attention. There was an obvious sadness to her countenance, one that bespoke of a broken heart. Pale features, delicate in form, only served to enhance the haunted look of despair in her eyes. For a moment, Elizabeth was reminded of Darcy’s own sister Georgiana, whose expression was often the same when she believed no one could see it. Fingering the engraved name plate, Elizabeth spoke her name aloud.
“Isabel Darcy…”
“Hers is a rather sad tale… what I know of it anyway. She died just a few years after the portrait was finished.”
Not requiring further encouragement, Darcy began the tale of Isabel Darcy as he donned a pair of white cotton gloves, before taking a soft cloth to the carved frame.
“After the death of Elizabeth I, England experienced much turmoil as many people worried about who would lay claim to the throne. With the ascension of James I, this became a far more serious matter for the Darcy family. As you know, the French side of my family are staunch Catholics, while the English are Church of England. This balance became rather precarious as the fears of renewed persecution took the country by storm, especially after the nasty business of plotting to blow up Parliament. Despite being Anglican, as well as taking the oath of allegiance, there were those who would see the Darcy family ruined and rumors about their loyalty needed to be quashed. Isabel, although young, was of a marriageable age and highly desired due to her sizeable dowry. In an effort to secure her safety as well as that of the family, a marriage was arranged to a distant acquaintance of her father’s. This man, one Edward Cuthbert was the youngest son and had just taken holy orders as an Anglican priest. It was a good match in terms of the stability it would bring to the family, but Isabel was not agreeable. Not that I could blame her, it is said that her father was hardly forthcoming with the arrangement and gave her little choice or notice. They had barely arrived home from an extended trip to the continent when the arrangements were finalized. She was to be married to a stranger in less than a fortnight. Isabel, so incensed at their deception, tried to run away, but it ended in tragedy. The horse that was meant to be her escape was run off the road, killing Isabel in the process. I believe that there is still a marker on the spot where it occurred. We pass it when using the north road out of Pemberley. Some have claimed that it was her own father’s pursuit that had caused the accident, preferring his daughter’s death than her defiance. No one really knows for sure.”
“That is a terrible story… so sad to be so desperate,” Elizabeth said, thinking of her own father. At one point, she too had been presented with a disagreeable marriage offer. Despite her mother’s insistence, Mr. Bennet had allowed is daughter the freedom to choose according to her heart. However, even though over two hundred years had passed since the time of Isabel Darcy, many young ladies still found themselves in the same situation. Every day, Elizabeth considered herself the most fortunate of women to have married for love and to one that loved her in return. Pushing aside thoughts that would surely bring her to unnecessary tears, she forced her attentions on the portrait itself.
“I suppose she is the one who must be banished to the upper hall so I may be put on display?”
Darcy smiled, but did not allow her any possibility of dissuasion. Reaching up, he lifted the portrait from is resting place and placed it on the floor with the frame leaning at an angle against the wainscoting. A dark square was all that remained upon the wall where the sun had been unable to penetrate making Darcy wrinkle his nose in distaste.
“I had no idea it was this bad, the entire wall needs repainting. Perhaps a lighter color to minimize the fading effects. Have you any particular preference?”
Elizabeth, seated cross-legged on the floor, had not been listening, but staring intently at something entirely different. When her husband had moved Isabel Darcy, the effort had dislodged a thin wrapped parcel from behind the portrait. Remains of candle wax, long cracked and filled with dust, appeared to have served as a glue to fix the parcel behind the portrait. Now, released from its hiding place, the wrapping crumbled slightly in her hands.
“Whatever do you have there?”
“I… I don’t know. It fell from behind the portrait. Someone must have stuck it there a long time ago.”
“That is very odd. I don’t remember anything like that from the last time the portraits were moved.”
“It fits exactly inside the frame, only now the wax has broken, freeing it. I doubt it would have been noticeable unless one knew it was there. What do you suppose is inside?”
“Probably a copy of the other portrait. Sittings were rather costly and time-consuming. It was not unusual for a person to have two versions done at the same time. Perhaps a change of dress or countenance. Go on and open it.”
“Well, I don’t plan on having more than one. I may even smile in it, simply to defy convention.”
“I look forward to the results.”
As they spoke, Elizabeth carefully removed the tattered paper. Her husband had only been partly correct, it was indeed another por
trait of Isabel Darcy, but this one was far different than the other. The image, one of intimacy, depicted a slightly older version of Isabel. Dressed in a long whisper of a nightrail, she was painted in full length, her form outlined through the thin material. She stood, staring at a large cheval mirror with hands outstretched. Although an unusual choice of setting, it was not Isabel’s scandalous depiction that sent a trill of excitement through Elizabeth. For in the reflection of the glass was not a twin of Isabel, but a man. A dark and surly looking complexion, contrasted with the white smocking of a painter as he gazed back at them. His face bore a mixture of what could only be anguish mixed with desire as one of his own hands reached towards the girl in her chamber.
“Its magnificent…” Darcy whispered from over her shoulder.
“But who? This is clearly not the work of the same artist that painted the formal portrait. Even my untrained eyes can see that.”
“Definitely not, this is the work of a true master. The use of color and dimension is beyond words. He is reaching towards Isabel, but staring at us…as if daring censure. I feel as if I have seen something similar in a museum, but for the moment the name escapes me. Look for anything that appears to be a signature.”
Elizabeth and Darcy inspected the canvas carefully, but there was no sign to suggest its creator.
“A mystery to be sure. I suggest we take it with us to London. Perhaps my curator friend can provide assistance, but if not, we can at least get it framed. It would be a shame to put it back in hiding again.”
“Yes, but where to hang it?”
“I leave that entirely up to you. After all, you found it, that makes it yours Mrs. Darcy.”
~Three~
One week later…
“Try to enjoy yourself, there will be time enough to deal with Aunt Catherine later. Besides, she will have to get used to you eventually, and it will be good to have Georgiana back home. Perhaps now that Anne is engaged, my aunt will be less concerned about what I do. I suppose poor Georgiana will be her next target. That is where I expect any tension.”
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