Portraits of Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  For all accounts, the mysterious painter was just another servant. He was never spoken of, nor were introductions ever made. Only Isabel noted his movements, for he was the one person with whom she could find a kindred soul. They were both prisoners. But after today, they would share that gilded cage. As he set up his easel, her movements in the window caught his attention. Staring upwards, his face was set with a frown as Isabel boldly raised a hand in acknowledgement. It was a simple gesture, without expectation of return. But instead of turning away, he held her gaze for a long moment. To Isabel, a bond had been formed and dangerous or not, she would find a way to meet with the painter.

  ~Fourteen~

  London 1815, The British Museum…

  Matthew Jennings slowly walked the empty museum, checking doors to verify they were locked and that the place was entirely vacant. This habit was borne not out of care for the national treasures housed by the building, but to ensure his own actions went unnoticed. It would be some hours before the arrival of his team of hired movers met him at the rear entrance. This was plenty of time to spend with the Darcy painting. Despite having it nearly a week, there had been little time to do a detailed examination. Even so, Matthew was fairly sure that it was a spectacular find, but… and that was a significant but… if it were to be a true Caravaggio, well… that was another matter entirely. To have discovered a lost work belonging to one of the Renaissance’s masters was a lifetime achievement. Once a duplicate was made, he would return the replica to the Darcys and find a buyer for the original. The desire to keep it for himself was intense, but what was art if it could not be displayed? There was no pride in owning such a thing if it must remain a secret. However, his buyers cared nothing for that, only the acquisition, and besides, most of them lived in exotic foreign places. Places, where the name of Darcy had no influence. Taking the painting from where he had carefully stored it, Matthew propped it up on a high easel. At eye level, it was easier to see intricate details. Using the added benefit of a magnifying glass, he searched the image for any sort of hidden signature. It was difficult, as the figures, their faces twisted in an emotion that could only be heartbreak, drew his attention away. The man’s likeness was indeed similar to the few existing self portraits of the famed Michelangelo Caravaggio, but that was not enough to ensure ownership. Other painters, mimics or talents in their own rights, often used those within the artists realms as inspiration. Leonardo da Vinci, Matthew’s own adopted mentor, used the faces of others for his works. Unfortunately, despite scouring every inch of the small canvas, there was nothing to suggest a creator. Sighing, he placed another painting of a similar size beside it. Somewhat more oblong than the original, the difference would not be noticed by the Darcys. It was the age of the duplicate that mattered. Fortunately, as a curator, he had access to scores of old paintings. Most, while aesthetically pleasing, were worthless in terms of value. It was these discarded pieces that he chose for his forgeries. One had to be very careful to ensure that no collector could detect a fraud. Some of his patrons had personal experts to verify authenticity, and they would not be pleased to be cheated. Tales of horror abounded as to what happened to anyone caught forging antiquities. Fingers, and even entire hands were roughly amputated as punishment. It was threats such as these that he too had used to manipulate his own workers. There was no greater punishment to an artist than the loss of a hand… or perhaps an eye. So far, it had been rather easy. His position at the museum, as well as his mother’s place in the Darcy townhome made the transfer of goods go undetected, until recently. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s marriage had jeopardized that situation, with the prospect of regular usage and frequent entertaining. The knowledge that his new wife disliked the house was encouraging, but new owners often brought their own staff. It would be the end of everything…. Unless Matthew could manage to purchase the house himself. He knew full well of its gory history, more than any other, even the police. For it had been his own step-father that had done the terrible deed, yet taken no blame. Instead, an innocent man had been hung for murder. But that was long ago, Matthew had been away at boarding school, courtesy of his real father’s money. No connection would ever be discovered between the foundling son of Wendell Jennings Esq. and Archie Winston. Eventually, by a stroke of pure luck, his mother had been made a widow, but not by the hangman’s noose. Archibald Winston met his death as a result of his overindulgence with whiskey. Having been found dead in a dockside alley, his loss had been minimal. Now, mother and son ran the ring of smuggling, with none the wiser. Pondering the idea of owning the Darcy townhome, Matthew calculated the profit from a potential sale with a smile before taking up a brush to paint over the old canvas. With the right buyer… his days of working for wages would be over. It was this prospect that fueled his efforts for the next hours until the loud hammering of a meaty fist announced the presence of his workmen.

  “The monkeys have arrived. I fear I must leave you now, but not for long,” he said absently to the figures in the painting. They would become old friends by the time he finished the duplicate, but for now, business called. Covering the canvas, he tucked it away and went to answer the door.

  Yanking open the bolt that secured the entrance for deliveries, Mathew Jennings swore under his breath at the sight of two of his artists, Thomas Linder being one of them. Having expected the simple-minded thugs, he regularly used to transport items, he was irritated by their presence.

  “What are you doing here? Have I not told you to never come here outside of regular hours? You must appear to be respectable! And you! You should be packing for Pemberley! Where are Jamie and Reg?”

  “They said they weren’t working for you anymore. Got themselves signed on to a merchant ship, so we came instead,” Linder said flatly.

  To ensure loyalty, as well as exert control, Matthew had provided lodgings for his artists, along with the occasional temporary worker. The prospect of being homeless and hungry went a long way to keep people in line. However, moving art was often dangerous and heavy work, he hated the prospect of their hands becoming injured. It was hard enough to find talent of their caliber who were also destitute. At university, most of his peers had been wealthy sons of the highest levels of society. No one else would have the funds to indulge such an occupation. But tonight, they would have to suffice.

  “Get in my carriage, it is already late and we haven’t much time. At least the house is now empty, so we shan’t be disturbed. I have a buyer who is most anxious for delivery,” he ordered.

  Doing as they were told; the carriage soon found its way to the Darcy townhouse. All was dark, save a single light glowing dully in the kitchens. It was here that Matthew Jennings greeted his mother before leading the way into the cellars. It would be a long night, but all of the inventory needed to be moved, especially if the house was to be sold. He did not want any solicitor giving grand tours and discovering what lay below.

  ~Fifteen~

  Rosings Park…

  Clara Smedly slowly folded Mrs. Darcy’s freshly laundered small clothes and smoothed the rainbow of silks before hanging each dress in the wardrobe. It was a routine to which she had grown quickly accustomed and performed to perfection each evening before her mistress retired. Despite the reality, Clara often felt the need to pinch herself to ensure that her daily life was not some sort of grand dream. Only the memory of being trapped in the cellars marred the perfection of her present situation. Never would Clara have imagined that she would rise to the lofty station of lady’s maid. Pausing to view her reflection in the mirror, she smiled at the image. A smart black dress, edged in white lace and cuffs identified her as one of the upper echelons in the household staff. As the personal servant of a visitor, she was treated with polite deference, no one dared issue her an order for fear that it may interfere with her mistress’ wishes. And that was something in itself. Rosings Park was the home of Mr. Darcy’s aunt. It was a grand place of which Clara had never hoped to ever enter. Yet, here she was, having the literal run of the pl
ace, provided she stayed out of Lady Catherine’s line of sight.

  “Just turn towards the wall and pretend to be occupied. Keep a dust rag or some such in your pocket for that purpose and make no reason to draw attention to yourself. Lady Catherine can be managed, but leave her to me,” advised Mr. Simcoe, butler of Rosings Park.

  Clara had nodded, doing exactly what he suggested, and for the past few days, she had greatly enjoyed herself. She made friends in the servants’ dining hall and learned much about the Darcy family.

  “If you think Rosings Park is something, wait until you see Pemberley. Nothing holds a candle to that estate, but Old Kate was not pleased about the marriage. She had her nephew pegged for Miss de Bourgh, now that would have been like an elephant marrying a mouse!”

  This, and other warnings were whispered behind cups of tea, when the housekeeper and butler were not present. Gossip, although a lifeline for servants, was frowned upon at Rosings, enough so to warrant more than one dismissal. Clara was not about to do anything to jeopardize her new found happiness. For her, it was easy, but for Mrs. Darcy, Clara wished the visit was already over. Upon retiring for each evening, Clara assisted her mistress in preparation for bed. It was then that Mrs. Darcy would show the strain of toleration for her relations. As a servant, Clara’s presence was often forgotten, allowing for the observation of personal conversations, ones that were best kept in confidence.

  “Nothing pleases that woman! Even the engagement of her own daughter creates no joy, all she does is criticize and poor Anne simply sits there and suffers. She probably accepted the first offer of marriage that came across as a way to escape! Oh, Fitzwilliam! know I should not rant so, for our time here is limited, but I just don’t know how everyone else tolerates her.”

  “And I, do not know how you find the patience hold your tongue in her presence, yet you manage beautifully. One more week, my dear, that is all. But I must say, her reception of you is far better than I expected.”

  “If you refer to her appraisal of my dress and hair as cordial, then I suppose you are right. I had not expected any sort of compliment, yet she seemed sincere. Lady Catherine must be feeling charitable now that Anne is to be married. What do you think of her intended? Lord Somby? I find it strange that he will be away until the ceremony.”

  “Nothing about my aunt or cousin is ever the norm. I only ever met the man once, and that was some years ago. His family and ours were quite close at one time, but the connection was lost after Mother passed. At least Anne seems pleased, and Aunt Catherine approves. It is Georgiana that has me puzzled. I find it hard to believe that she truly wishes to remain at Rosings.”

  “It is only until the wedding, as Anne’s attendant, there will be much to arrange. Perhaps it is to ensure that Anne’s wishes are met. Georgiana does have a way with your Aunt.”

  “She always has, I suppose it is the resemblance to our mother. At any rate, if that is her wish, I have no objection. It will give me more time with you alone….”

  As if suddenly realizing that they were not alone, Elizabeth blushed and dismissed Clara for the evening.

  “I can manage from here, thank you. We will be rising early tomorrow as I plan to visit a dear friend. Perhaps you would enjoy a day off?” she offered.

  “Yes, madam, thankyou madam… sir… good night then.”

  Clara, hands filled with soiled clothing, quickly left the bedchamber, but smiled as the door closed behind her. For it was not sleep that her employers sought, the muffled giggles of Mrs. Darcy echoed through. Despite the difficulties they might experience with their relations, they were the happiest of couples. That fact alone, bode well for Clara’s future. When harmony existed in the home, all benefitted, down to the lowliest of scullery maids. A spring in her step could not be disguised as Clara retreated to her own chamber after depositing her bundle to be cleaned. A day off was a rare pleasure, and one she would enjoy to the fullest.

  ~Sixteen~

  Rosings vicarage, the next day…

  Elizabeth tried to be cheerful as she called upon her dearest friend, but it was difficult when poor Charlotte was married to the Reverend Mr. Collins. As a distant cousin to her own family, Elizabeth had at one time refused his proposal. The prospect of marriage to a man such as Mr. Collins was unthinkable. It was even more so when Elizabeth recalled the happiness she felt in her own marriage. Forcing a smile before she exited the carriage, Elizabeth would not display any sort of disapproval that would dismay Charlotte. Unfortunately, the countenance of Mrs. Collins reflected her misery and after closing the door to her private sitting room, Charlotte Lucas Collins burst into tears. Ordinarily the most practical and stolid of persons, this outburst alarmed Elizabeth greatly.

  “Oh Charlotte, surely nothing is so bad as to be a cause for tears? Is it Mr. Collins? Does he mistreat you? Mr. Darcy can speak with him…”

  “Oh no! Mr. Collins is the kindest of men, despite his dullness. It is me… and I am deserving of derision… I am to have a child.”

  To this announcement, Elizabeth was perplexed. Why ever would the expectation of a child cause so much despair.

  “But that is a wonderful thing! You will make an excellent mother.”

  “That is just it, I will be a terrible mother… I do not want a child….and I cannot tell Mr. Collins. I may go to hell for saying so, but I wish that something would happen to prevent it from coming.”

  “You don’t mean that… I am sure it is frightening, but once the child arrives… surely you will love it. It is only natural. I have heard of many ladies expressing these same concerns.”

  “But they are not me…Elizabeth, I know my own mind, it will not change. Will you assist me?”

  “I am not sure what I can do. Eventually, your condition will not be something that can be hidden and you must tell Mr. Collins.”

  To this calm reasoning, Charlotte burst into another round of tears. Elizabeth had heard of women in her condition behaving unreasonably, but Charlotte was never one to give into any sort of hysterics. There had to be something far greater wrong to cause this complete breakdown. Grimacing to herself, Elizabeth dared to ask the question that nagged her mind.

  “Charlotte?... is Mr. Collins not the baby’s father?”

  Shocked by the bluntness of her friend’s query, Charlotte immediately ceased her sobbing and became strangely quiet, but the look in her eyes bore a tinge of madness as she nodded in reply.

  “Oh dear…” Elizabeth responded, but after a moment simply shrugged.

  “I doubt that you are the first person to be in this situation, and I know this may sound terrible, but Mr. Collins is not the brightest man on earth. Would it be so awful if he believed that the child was his?”

  Charlotte only sighed, her crying abated, she now twisted her handkerchief fiercely in her lap. It was embarrassing to speak of such private matters, but there was no one, save Elizabeth, who could be trusted to keep such a confidence.

  “That is impossible.”

  “I don’t understand… unless the baby’s father is a problem.”

  “No… he won’t be back… it was a one-time transgression. One for which I must bear the consequence. Trust me on that… it is just that Mr. Collins and I have never…”

  Elizabeth allowed the incredulity of her words to sink in. How could this be? After all, Charlotte had been married nearly two years, but considering the fact that it was Mr. Collins, anything was possible. Thinking for a moment, Elizabeth’s mind working frantically for a solution that would please all parties. It was indeed a delicate situation, and one that unfortunately would require great falsehoods to be told. Feeling more than a twinge of guilt herself, Elizabeth voiced a possibility.

  “Have not does not mean cannot. How far along do you estimate to be?”

  “I… I am not sure. Perhaps two months?”

  “Well… babies do have a habit of arriving early. You will simply have to seduce him.”

  “I don’t know how!”

  �
�Apparently you do or we would not be having this conversation. Does Mr. Collins ever take wine? While he was at Longbourn, I never saw him imbibe.”

  “No… never. He claims it is the drink of the devil.”

  “Well not tonight. Call it medicinal if you must, but get him well into his cups. Remember, it is for the child. They are an innocent in all of this, besides for whatever faults Mr. Collins may possess, he will probably dote on the child.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “If only it were, but growing up in a house filled with women, there was one thing I learned quickly… and that was how to clean up a mess.”

  Charlotte, having realized a practical end to her problems, brightened up and the conversation soon turned to happier subjects. And by the time Elizabeth returned to Rosings, Mrs. Collins was planning the most romantic of dinners. Elizabeth hoped the ruse would work, but did not feel pleased about her part. Why did so many women find themselves in a state of misery from an attempt to grasp hold of a fleeting happiness. Thinking of Charlotte, it reminded Elizabeth of the painting they had left in London. Had Isabel Darcy done something similar, something that had eventually led to desperation? Hopefully, Mr. Jennings would discover who painted it, or even possibly, the identity of the mysterious man in the mirror. Dwelling upon this, as well as Charlotte’s situation, did little to set a pleasant presence of mind for the rest of the day. Another week of Lady Catherine de Bourgh still stood looming in her future.

  ~Seventeen~

  Later that evening…

  “Well it is about time a Darcy man showed some sense. I told your father many times that it was a mistake to have ever bought that place. Only madness would possess someone to purchase a house in which a murder had taken place. Even my dear departed sister could not sway his foolishness!”