Darcy and Elizabeth winced in unison at the tirade, but it was almost refreshing to see the return of normalcy to Lady Catherine’s oddly pleasant demeanor. However, as Anne and Georgiana were not present, Elizabeth suspected the former cordiality to have been for their sake alone. Now, there was no reason to maintain the façade.
“I did not even know about it myself until the solicitor mentioned it. Quite gruesome… and a prostitute as well,” Darcy defended.
“Prostitute my foot! That girl was the former owner’s parlor maid. I remember it well… in all the papers, but they have a way of distorting the truth. Everyone suspected that something odd was about. After all, what complete stranger with no connections is able to purchase a house in that neighborhood? He claimed to have been abroad most of his life, with family in Essex, but I have close relations in that part of the country. No family of that name exists. Probably all a ruse to hide ill gotten money. There were also rumors of strange goings-on at all hours of the night. But what can one expect from the nouveau riche? May as well be an American…. Always needing to show off. Bartleston was his name… Joseph Bartleston.”
Elizabeth listened to the tale with a mixture of amusement and dismay. For a man of no consequence, Lady Catherine seemed to know quite a bit about him. Yet the confirmation was disturbing, especially when the house now belonged to the Darcys. How were they ever to be rid of it? The sole consolation came from the fact that this bit of scandal had nothing to do with her own family. In that, it was oddly satisfying. Smothering a smile, Elizabeth focused on her plate but Lady Catherine’s sharp eyes had not missed the change in her expression.
“What is so amusing? I suppose you are enjoying this bit of gossip. I dare say it rivals that of Mrs. Collins. You did pay her a visit today?”
Sobering immediately, Elizabeth wondered what other secrets Lady Catherine knew.
“I did, we had an enjoyable reunion. She seems perfectly content with her situation and finds the vicarage completely to her tastes.”
It was a lie, but necessary if she was to preserve confidences.
“Hrmph! She hardly shows it. Sometimes I truly question Mr. Collins’ judgement in his choice of wife. There is a cat hidden under that lace cap and demure countenance… but then, you would know best. Were you not close as children.”
“Indeed, we were… still are, but I have never known Charlotte to do anything untoward.”
“Then apparently, you do not know her as well as you believe. Just a few months ago, I observed her behaving like the world’s worst flirt. Her conduct was so bad that I felt the need to inform Mr. Collins. While that man may be an excellent vicar, he is completely blind to his own wife.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard and did her best to appear only mildly interested, but the fluttering in her abdomen threatened to make her ill. Was Lady Catherine aware of Charlotte’s indiscretion?
“Surely it was misunderstood. Charlotte is all kindness and benevolence, but I have never known her to be flirtatious with anyone.”
“I know what I saw! But as Anne’s portrait was nearly complete, I saw no reason to sack the man.”
“Did you say portrait? We have just arranged to have Elizabeth’s begun. My old university friend, Matthew Jennings has arranged a man for us. You do recall him Aunt? He spent a summer at Pemberley before father died.”
“Indeed, I do! It was he that referred the man. Excellent painter, of that I cannot deny, but far too familiar with Mrs. Collins. As a married woman, I place all blame upon her. She should have stayed well away from Master Linder. Not that it matters now, he is gone and she is here. But, if anything of the like occurs again, I may be finding a new vicar. For now, I will content myself having writ a strongly worded complaint to Mr. Jennings on the matter.”
Darcy exchanged looks with Elizabeth, and as if in silent agreement, neither chose to mention that the same man was engaged to paint at Pemberley. It presented an awkward situation for Elizabeth. How would she endure the man now identified as the father of Charlotte’s child? The dilemma of whether to tell Darcy would also plague her. How did one breach the confidence of a dear friend upon the premise of obligation to a spouse? As she had every day since their arrival, Elizabeth wished they had never come to Rosings.
~Eighteen~
Three days later….
Elizabeth did not have another opportunity to visit with Charlotte privately before it was time to return to Pemberley. Their only encounter was at dinner the night before the Darcys were scheduled to leave.
“Why Mr. Collins! I do not believe that I have ever seen you take wine with dinner before. What has caused this change of appetite?” Lady Catherine demanded.
“I… Er…Charlotte has made me aware that my abstinence has no biblical bearing. I find it very soothing to my digestion.”
“Is that so? Whenever have you found fault with my cook’s efforts? Or, is it Mrs. Collins’ cuisine that causes illness?”
This direct insult seemed to be lost on the vicar as he blushed deeply and shook his head in denial. Looking across the table, Elizabeth studied Charlotte’s face for any suggestion of distress, but was met with a contented smile and shrug of askance. It appeared that Mrs. Collins had been successful in finally consummating her marriage. Heaving an internal sigh of relief, Elizabeth hoped all turned out for the best, but was still in disbelief that such a thing had occurred. And now, the very man responsible for Charlotte’s situation was to spend weeks at Pemberley. How was she to face him and not betray her confidence? At least there would not be a repeat performance. Pemberley’s housekeeper, an astute woman who ruled her staff with firm kindness, would brook no transgression of that sort, but perhaps a word or two of warning would not be amiss. Although Charlotte had assured Elizabeth that the painter had not been the one to solicit advances, it would not hurt to be cautious, especially with impressionable young women so near. With Georgiana safely at Rosings, Elizabeth’s concern was for her personal maid. Despite Clara’s experience of the world that one only acquired from a life in service, she was still very naïve. Just that morning, she had chattered away, providing every detail in regard to her day off.
“Oh Madam! I went into town and had tea with fancy cakes, all by myself. The people were so friendly, not like in London where one is immediately sized up based upon their clothes. Will Pemberley be much like Rosings?”
“Even better. I hope you do not have cause to regret accepting the post.”
Clara had not replied, but a strange faraway gaze captured her features for a fleeting moment and was just as quickly gone. But, in that instant, Elizabeth saw paralyzing fear. Something in the past had clearly terrified the girl. Unwilling to pry, Elizabeth simply patted her hand and left Clara to her duties. Revealing personal matters was difficult enough for friends, let alone servants to employers. Besides, at Pemberley, Clara would be safe enough.
*****
Darcy too, thought his Aunt’s behavior curious, but not enough to give it great consideration. He was far more concerned that Georgiana did not want to return to Pemberley. When she had first been informed of being sent to Rosings, her face had fallen, even with the prospect of spending time with her cousin.
“Anne and I have drifted in our interests. All she writes about is her impending marriage. I suppose it is jealousy on my part, but a little bit of me wishes that childhood could last forever.”
“Oh Georgiana, it has been years since you were a child. And, while I do not wish to bring up unpleasant memories, at one time, you were very eager to marry. Has that changed forever?”
Georgiana pulled a face, one unbecoming of a young lady of her station, but it was difficult to not regress when the subject of her near scandal was mentioned.
“Dear brother, I am quite over Mr. Wickham. There is nothing you can say about him that will upset me now. And while I will always be grateful for your intervention, the memory has not hardened me against marriage. I simply no longer see the need to marry for happiness.”
“No, I have my music to occupy my time. For now, that is enough.”
“And when it is not?”
At the time, Georgiana had not replied, but when the same concerns were voiced again this time, it was with a new opinion. The girl that had dreaded going to Rosings Park, now wished fervently to remain.
“I will worry about the future later. Remember, I am only just seventeen. Besides, Aunt Catherine needs someone now. Although she will not admit it, Anne’s marriage will leave her with no focus.”
“Just be sure that you do not become her obsession. A carriage can be sent for you at any time.”
“I know, and I thank you, but for now, my place is at Rosings.”
Now, as they rode slowly to Pemberley, it was in a mutual silence. The prospect of leaving his sister behind had placed Darcy in a sullen mood, one that matched his own bride. Although joyous at the prospect of returning home, each felt as if they had left unfinished business at Rosings.
~Nineteen~
Pemberley… that same week.
Thomas Linder moved his easel from one location to the next, critically assessing the light that poured through the conservatory windows. At any other time, he would have relished this opportunity to not only paint a very lovely and generous patroness, but also enjoy the luxury of a house like Pemberley. Having grown up in the shadow of grand estates, his parents, Mother a former governess, and Father the local schoolmaster, had given him a fine education, but little in the way of fortune. However, this combination had only served to deepen his appreciation for all aspects of art. Upon his arrival, Thomas had marveled at the architecture of Pemberley. It was as if each detail, down to the most insignificant trimming, had been chosen with exquisite care. As a result, the effect was one of majestic perfection. Even the gardens were landscaped to compliment the features of the house. His stay, however temporary, was a dream fulfilled. Only the harsh orders of his employer marred the experience. For this was no simple commission, he, Thomas Linder, had become a traitor to his calling. His fall from grace would be complete with this assignment, but Matthew Jennings was not a man to be crossed. Before leaving London, the curator had given him a stern warning.
“I shall be checking up on you in a few weeks. By then you should have taken stock of Pemberley’s paintings. As I have not been there in some years, the collection surely will have grown. Remember, the Renaissance works fetch the best prices, it is those upon which you are to focus.”
Thomas had only nodded. Indeed, he did not want to end up like the others. When Jennings had discovered that his regular movers had quit him in favor of another, it had not gone well. Jaimie and Reg had never made it to their merchant ship, but had been discovered by the river police a week later. Their remains, having been tossed about in the turbulent tides of the Thames, were hardly recognizable, but the deep gash across both men’s throats bore evidence of deaths that were not accidental. Touching his own intact neck, Linder had swallowed heavily and remained silent. Yes, he would obey, even though his soul cried out in protest.
Now, as he arranged the designated studio, Thomas did his best to put the incident out of his mind and focus on the task at hand. The Darcys had been extremely hospitable in their offer. A suite of rooms, entirely for his personal use, had been made ready upon his arrival. This was a stark change from his previous assignment. Never could two households be more different in atmosphere. Thomas would not have ever believed that Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the aunt of the present Mr. Darcy. Having spent nearly six weeks at Rosings Park, he had been more than ready to return to London, or anywhere away from that harridan. His commission had been to paint the old woman’s daughter. An easy enough subject, Miss de Bourgh sat diligently and did not complain, but her mother was another matter entirely. Not once, not twice, but FIVE times she had inspected his progress and insisted that he start over. At one interruption, she had gone so far as to take up a brush and splash black paint over her daughter’s likeness.
“This does not capture her eyes correctly! They are violet, not blue. And her complexion… it is all wrong! You have made her look common. There is nothing common about my daughter! Can you not see that? I do not know what Mr. Jennings was thinking in sending you to me!”
Lady Catherine’s words still stung as their insult was not warranted. He was quite good at creating exact replicas of living persons, it was this talent that had brought him under the notice of Matthew Jennings. But her act, so unexpected and harsh, had nearly caused him to forget his manners. What sort of person did this? A great pity for Anne de Bourgh had filled him, preventing any backlash that would surely cause for his dismissal. In the end, he had painted a portrait that hardly resembled his subject, but pleased his patroness. If anything, the girl in the painting bore a stronger likeness to Anne de Bourgh’s visiting cousin, Miss Darcy. It was a strange situation, but it was not his place to understand the minds of the gentry. Besides, his main purpose there was not to paint, but to steal. When not engaged in work, he had hardly been noticed. Under the guise of ordering supplies, Thomas had been able to purloin numerous works of art from Rosings and ship them to London. Not that anyone would ever miss a thing, for Lady Catherine de Bourgh was a hoarder in the extreme. Priceless art, worthy of the finest museum, lay rotting in the mouse ridden attics of her home. Fortunately, Thomas had not been forced to share these accommodations. Having been given quarters in one of the gardener’s cottages, Thomas spent his free time wandering the gardens. It was there that he regularly encountered another lady of Rosings. However, this one did not live in the great house, she was the wife of the local vicar.
******
“You must be the newly engaged painter.” She said with a blunt matter of fact when she noticed him watching her.
“Thomas Linder, at your service, madam,” he had replied with a smile.
He had no intention of engaging her in conversation. His place was to paint and to acquire, not form acquaintances. But there was something in her countenance that tugged at him, and he could not explain why. A rather average woman, there was nothing in her features to suggest beauty, or even the slightest care in her appearance. she dressed in drab shades of brown, like a wren, hiding in plain sight. If not for the cultured tone of her voice, he would have believed her to be a servant, and one in the most miserable of states. It was as if all the sorrows of the world rested upon her shoulders. This assessment, made without any sort of evidence, pressed him to probe further out of curiosity.
“And what service could you provide to a vicar’s wife? Perhaps paint my drawing room walls?”
Confused by her reply, it took a few moments before he realized the jest. The faintest of twinkles sparked in her eyes, giving the impression of one who had known happiness and lost it.
“If that is what you require…Lady Catherine does not command all of my time.”
“I doubt she would approve.”
“I do not believe she approves of much.”
This true but uncharitable appraisal forced a laugh of agreement, but the mirth was fleeting. A glance at the clock pinned to her breast shot a look of alarm through her and with a nod of goodbye, Charlotte Collins turned and fled the garden. Bewildered, but with no recourse, he had let the encounter be forgotten. A few days later, he had seen her in the same spot, but did not intrude as a man, face hidden by his hat pulled low, soon joined Mrs. Collins. From their embrace, it was clear that he had interrupted some sort of lover’s tryst. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, Thomas returned to work, his life was already complicated enough, and the sooner he finished, the faster he could return to London.
Now, weeks later at Pemberley, he wondered whatever happened to the sad lady. So many people had little choice in their lives, he was proof of that. However, he had managed to keep most of Lady Catherine’s commission, despite having to give nearly half to Matthew Jennings. It was not enough to start somewhere fresh, but if he
pleased the Darcys, he might be able to acquire recommendations without Jennings. If only Matthew Jennings and the Darcys were not friends. Thomas wondered if the Darcys had any idea that their close acquaintance was involved in illegal activities… what would they say to that? As it was, in the days since his arrival he had been able to take measure of the house. Aside from the gallery and large reception rooms, he had not seen any other displays of artwork, paint or otherwise. Nor did he find anything particularly valuable. Oh, there were fine pictures, but the vast array were landscape views of the estate or long dead ancestors. If the Darcys were in possession of any masterpieces, they were kept in locations not accessible to visitors. He would have to invade private areas to be sure. It was a dangerous move, but then, so was displeasing Matthew Jennings. Moving his easel one last time, Thomas was finally pleased with its placement. The conservatory boasted large windows from ceiling to floor on three sides. The time of day would not be worrisome for unwanted shadows while he worked. Perhaps, if he engaged in congenial conversation with his subject, an invitation to dinner or drinks might gain him the access he needed. Vocal admiration of a person’s home went a long way to secure a detailed tour. It was an easy plan, one he would implement immediately, with the return of the Darcys upon the morrow. Satisfied with the arrangement of the chamber, he turned to leave just as the retreating form of a woman vanished around a corner. The swish of a black skirted dress did little to reveal the identity of whomever had been watching him. Shrugging it off as a housemaid curious about a newcomer, Thomas focused on the grumbling in his abdomen. It was nearly dinner time, and Pemberley spared no expense in the servant’s dining hall. With a full stomach, he would sleep well one last night before his work began.
~Twenty~
Portraits of Pemberley Page 7
