Portraits of Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  ~Twenty-five~

  Later that evening…

  “How have you been fairing with the portrait process?” Darcy teased as he poured Elizabeth a glass of wine.

  “As good as expected. I am not one to stay still for long periods of time, but having the Barringtons about does provide an element of amusement.”

  “Of that I have no doubts, poor Linder must be bruised blue, but he is very good at his profession.”

  “Agreed, I wish you would relent and come and appraise the progress yourself. He does have a talent for capturing one’s personality on canvas.”

  “Oh no, I shall wait patiently until the masterpiece is finished… but speaking of such, did you by chance send him to fetch a book earlier?”

  Elizabeth frowned, she had tried to brush away a nagging suspicion towards the painter, but the feeling lingered despite any proof of wrongdoing.

  “No… but he did mention encountering you in the library. I assumed that you had invited him in.”

  “I did not, he claimed you sent him. I was obvious that he was lying, but we did have a cordial conversation. He is willing to try to repair one of the Vermeer’s.”

  “You trust him that well?”

  “I trust Matthew Jennings’ judgement, besides, I cannot imagine that any appreciator of art would deliberately damage such a piece, nor could it be sold without appropriate papers.”

  This logic did much to relieve Elizabeth’s feelings. It did not excuse the lies, but as Linder did not have a key, someone was responsible for breaking the rules. Perhaps he had not wanted to cause trouble for a servant and all her fuss was for naught. Smiling at her husband, Elizabeth sipped her wine and gazed upwards at the collection of images returning her stare. What were they all worth? Probably more than her father’s entire estate.

  “It would be good to see fragile paintings restored. I had invited him to dinner tonight to gauge his reaction to the collection, but now it seems foolish. By the way, have you heard anything from Mr. Jennings about our hidden portrait? I recall him saying that it was to return with Mr. Linder, yet he did not send it along with him. What could be the reason for delay? It has been nearly two months, surely it does not take that long to verify a painting’s authenticity or clean it?”

  “I have not, but as it was not signed, it may be more complicated. But as you say, it is a bit curious for something that supposedly has no great value but to us. I will write to him tomorrow and invite him here for a visit. It will give an opportunity to return the painting without the need for us to go to London.”

  “That is an excellent idea, no sane person can resist an offer to stay at Pemberley.”

  Darcy snorted a laugh and wagged a finger in her direction. “I believe you once turned down the entire place… and me with it!”

  “Oh! You are terrible to remind me of that!” Elizabeth replied and lobbed a small cushion at Darcy’s head. Dodging the missile, he prepared to return fire, but their banter was interrupted by a quiet cough, announcing the presence of another.

  “Mr. Linder! Do come in, we were just discussing your talents.”

  “I hope to not disappoint… but I must admit to having overheard the possibility of Mr. Jennings coming to Pemberley?”

  “That is our hope, if he can get away from the demands of the Museum.”

  “It will be good to see him again,” Linder responded, but a trickle of fear ran through him. While it was a relief to be forewarned, the timing was terrible. Faking art took an immense amount of time. Hours of painstaking work, with fine details often resulted in terrible headaches. And that was when he had competed privacy and security. Pemberley was a hive of activity, going unnoticed would require him to keep very late hours. Jennings would expect him to have something competed very soon. Forcing a smile, he turned to his hosts as Darcy handed him a glass of brandy.

  “Mrs. Darcy tells me you have an interest in plants as well as art. Pemberley possesses a fine collection of books on that very subject, characterizing medicinals as well as the more picturesque. You are welcome to borrow them during your stay.”

  Remembering their conversation about Mrs. Collins, Linder smiled and nodded, “That would please me very much, but I would hate to get paint on something so fine.”

  “There is no need to worry about that if the books remain here, I shall inform the footmen that you are to have free access.”

  “Thank you, sir, you have been generous beyond expectation.”

  “Nonsense, it is you who are granting us a favor. Books are meant to be read, just as pictures need appreciation.”

  The rest of the evening was of a companionable sort. Elizabeth relaxed her fears that their painter was anything but respectable and Thomas Linder was filled with relief that he now had uninterrupted access to the Pemberley collection. However, he made a silent vow to not repay the kindness with theft. Thomas Linder would indeed make duplicates, but the originals would remain where they rightfully belonged. All he needed to do was be good enough to fool a master thief. Only Darcy kept his guard. Heavily shielded from notice, the Master of Pemberley did not so easily give his trust completely. But it was a certain truth that what does not feel the need to hide is easer to observe, and he would be watching Thomas Linder very closely.

  ~Twenty-six~

  London, one week later…

  Matthew Jennings threw down the paintbrush in anger as the museum’s great entry clock struck the hour of one. Had he really been at it that long? Staring at the painting, the urge to destroy what was becoming his nemesis was nearly overpowering. His hands shook, sending wayward drops of paint spattering as he fought to control his rage. Only years of strict training prevented the ruin of a true lost masterpiece. It had taken hours of strained eyesight before he finally found the signature. Hidden in the strangest of places, even the most trained experts would have had difficulty in its discovery. Yet he had managed the impossible, with the assistance of a very strong magnifying glass. In the smallest of script, the words mia dolce Isabel…mi ricorda…Caravaggio wound their way in the ribbon that trimmed the female figure’s gown. At first, the writing had appeared to be some sort of floral filigree, but after a careful cleaning it was easier to see a subtle difference in the patterning. The ecstasy of authenticating a real Renaissance masterpiece had quickly vanished when it came to its duplication. The challenge, ordinarily an aspect he relished, turned to frustration as one technique after another failed to adequately reproduce the master’s natural ability. Jennings had lost count of the number of times he had to start anew, but the painting alone was just one of the difficulties. Caravaggio had not used a traditional canvas. The painting appeared to be some sort of stretched hide. An unusual choice to be sure, perhaps one of necessity. Nearly a week had been spent scouring London’s leather shops in order to find a matching product. Eventually, he had been forced to settle for a thin goatskin, stretched over a frame salvaged from another work of a similar age. It had taken years to collect such remnants, necessary to fool the experts. Fake paintings abounded, but if one was not careful to consider the most minute detail, the fraud would be discovered. The ramifications of thievery were dire as most patrons of art were well connected and wealthy enough to pull favors with the law. Sighing in defeat, Matthew Jennings collected his efforts into a pile. It was of no use; he was unable to reproduce the painting. His personal style of painting was drastically different from that of Caravaggio. Perhaps Darcy would be willing to sell the painting? The acquaintance was proving to be extremely profitable, was one piece worth the loss? Just that morning, Jennings had received a polite invitation to Pemberley. It was immediately accepted, despite the inconvenience to his current business. Not only would he be able to see the Darcy art collection again, it had also been some weeks since he had heard from Thomas Linder. Although he had never disobeyed an order, there was something about the talented painter that could not be trusted. It was as if the thief possessed a moral center. That was a dangerous thing, and one that must b
e squelched, but not for the moment. Other business was far more pressing, necessitating his personal supervision. With a sigh of acceptance, Jennings wrapped the Caravaggio in muslin and placed it on a small table used to pack canvases for shipping. He would return for it later; Mother was waiting at the Darcy townhouse and would not be pleased if he were delayed.

  *****

  The square in which the townhouse stood was shrouded in darkness. A thick fog had rolled in providing excellent cover for the illicit activity that dwelled in the cellars of the Darcy home. One single lantern glowed dimly as Abigail Winston awaited the arrival of her son. With the owners absent, it had been easy to arrange transport of many of the paintings stored below, but a considerable amount still needed to be taken away… and soon. There had been much interest in the property despite its less than respectable history. Apparently, the Darcy name was enough to quell even the most licentious behavior. Tapping her foot against growing impatience, it was not long before the welcome sound of a horse approached.

  “Good evening Mother, I trust all is going according to schedule?”

  “You’re a bit late, I was beginning to fear that something had prevented your coming.”

  “And what would that be? Have I not always been the picture of punctuality?”

  “You’re a picture all right, but that is why we must hurry. The house was shown today, and from what I could hear, they are very interested… plan on making an offer to buy it. We’ll be finished.”

  “Nonsense, surely they will not be able to resist having an established staff already installed? Besides, this sort of thing can take weeks to complete, even if they come to terms quickly.”

  “Even so, strangers poking about is never a good thing. They wanted to see everything, I even had to open up the attics.”

  “And the cellars?”

  “Storage… said it were all of the new Missus’ things.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  “Mother can handle just about anything, but these new people are not like the Darcys. They will be here full time; we won’t be able to go on as we have.”

  “Not to worry, I believe that our fortunes will soon be made… very soon. Just trust me a while longer.”

  “I always do.”

  *****

  Hours later, just as the sun was rising, Matthew Jennings returned to the workrooms in the museum. The cellars of the Darcy house were nearly empty, save a few of the larger pieces awaiting a particular buyer, but that could wait. Taking the Caravaggio from where it lay, he tucked it carefully in a leather satchel. Arrangements still needed to be made for a temporary man to take his place, but within a fortnight he would be on his way to Pemberley for an extended stay. Ironically, the board of directors had admonished him the previous week for for never taking a holiday, worrying that he worked too hard. Little did they know the nature of his work after the doors were closed. The invitation to Pemberley could not have come at a better time, if he was lucky, this would be his last participation in the world of black-market art.

  ~Twenty-seven~

  Clara Smedley found that sleep continually evaded despite the consumption of warm milk and chamomile. It was earlier than she usually took to bed, but having had the afternoon off she had fancied what it would be to have a life of leisure, but as she was unaccustomed to idleness, the hours lying about had now left her unable to rest at the regular hour. Giving up with a sigh, she donned her regular dress, but opted for slippers to mask her steps should they wake the other servants. Treading down the hall, she passed the nearly empty servant’s lounge. Mr. Crabtree, the former valet of Mr. Darcy’s father, snored loudly in an overstuffed chair. Long past his retirement, he had not whished to leave Pemberley and now was doted upon by everyone, telling grand tales of the family. Clara stopped briefly, tucking a blanket about the thin shoulders before moving on. The hall, dimly lit by one gas lamp, threw shadows upon the walls that appeared to grasp upwards like the tortured souls of hell reaching for release from the flames. But no such horrors awaited anyone at Pemberley, Clara allowed the light to play tricks upon her eyes. However, one light did not produce any such foolishness. A thin band glowed brightly from under one of the bedchamber doors. Who could be up so late? With sunrise some three hours away, all should be fast asleep. Thankful that her feet made no noise, Clara crept further, listening to the sound of frustrated muttering from beyond the door. It was the painter, up at all hours, but doing what? Over the past few weeks, her fear of him had subsided, and now she viewed her former feelings as foolish. During Mrs. Darcy’s sittings, she had taken every opportunity to be in the solarium to watch the proceedings. More than once, Clara had been forced to stuff her fist into her mouth to prevent laughing as the nimble fingers of old Mrs. Barrington pinched the poor painter’s backside. It was a wonder that any work had gotten done. Even the old lady’s granddaughter could not control her. Sometimes, Clara had fancied that the painter was watching her, but as quickly as she looked, the feeling was gone. Now, she wondered what kept him awake at such odd hours. As if her curiosity was audible, the door suddenly opened, flooding the hall with light as well as the strong odor of paint. Overcome by a fit of coughing, the painter did not immediately notice that he had been observed, allowing the open doorway to expose his actions.

  “What…what are you doing? Gawd that stinks!”

  “Go mind your own! I’ve work to do.” he snapped and tried to shut the door, but Clara had slipped inside. Now, the maid stood speechless as a gallery of paintings met her eyes. It was not the beauty of the work that struck her, but the fact that there were two of each. Identical paintings, down to the frames in which they were set, hung side by side. An initial confusion soon cleared as Clara realized the reason for the duplicity. By now, Thomas Linder had closed and locked the door, preventing any other from discovering his midnight occupation.

  “There is nothing wrong with copying a masterpiece. It’s done all the time. Sometimes museums even display fake ones while the originals are restored. Mr. Darcy has commissioned me to repair some of his older ones,” he explained, but rested his back upon the closed door, barring her escape.

  Clara watched him carefully, realizing that she was imprisoned, but also knew that one shrill scream would send the whole house running. Placing her hands on her hips in defiance, she thrust out her bottom lip before replying.

  “You’re a liar! I know all about you and now the Darcys will too. I know that Mrs. Winston’s son hired you to steal from them.”

  “Mrs. Winston? Who the devil is that?”

  “Oh, you know! He even said your name… she helps him hide things… things like this in the cellars!”

  “What cellar? You are mad… complete madness.” Insisted but his words fell hollow as the guilt flooded his face.

  “The townhouse…I know, and I will tell Mrs. Darcy. You’re a thief!”

  “Shut up! You don’t know anything, if you did you wouldn’t say a word…there are people… bad people.”

  Thomas Linder slumped to the floor, his eyes closed, he rubbed his face as he tapped his head against the closed door. He knew this would eventually happen. People always got caught when they did bad things, but how was he to get out of this?

  “I know all about bad people, and the girl that got murdered,” Clara ventured. Feeling empowered by his distress she stood over him, taunting for information.

  “They’ll put you in prison forever, maybe even hang you…you and Mrs. Winston and her son…all of you.”

  “I’m not like them…but know this… now that you know, you are in danger too. He… Matthew Jennings will kill anyone if he doesn’t get what he wants. I have seen it.”

  Clara swallowed heavily, her bravado failing, she began to cry. Every time she found happiness, something always came along and ruined it, for she had heard the name of Matthew Jennings before. He was a close acquaintance of the Darcys. No one would believe the words of a maid against a respected museum curator… and worse yet, he was on hi
s way to Pemberley.

  ~Twenty-eight~

  Two weeks later…

  Elizabeth and Darcy stood before the nearly completed portrait in admiration. By the end of the month, it would be finished and ready for display. It was truly a thing worthy of praise, but something seemed lacking. There was nothing in regard to the mirrored image’s face for which fault could be found. Lifelike eyes twinkled back at them as a half-smile suggested some unspoken amusement. Elizabeth’s hair shone with the auburn undertones only to be found when sunlight danced upon her head. No, it was not that, but nor was it the choice of clothing or background. The colors of the image’s gown were variegated so every crease and shadow suggested that one could reach out and touch the embroidered silk. A dusky shadow created a halo effect as it grew lighter nearing the figure. To any appraiser, the portrait was an excellent rendering of Elizabeth Darcy, yet when gazed upon by the original, something was missing.

  “It’s beautiful, but to be honest, I find it more than a bit unsettling. The eyes seem to follow me about the room,” Elizabeth lamented.

  “That is a painter’s technique. Many of the great masters used it… da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is said to have that effect.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t care for it.”

  “I should hate to be the one to tell Mr. Linder that you need to sit for another….”

  Darcy’s voice trailed as he gauged Elizabeth’s reaction. He was only teasing, but if she truly disliked it so much, it would prolong the painter’s stay at Pemberley. Not that it mattered, for there were still plenty more paintings that needed repairs. Due to the more immediate requirement to paint Elizabeth’s portrait, as well as that of the Barrington ladies, only the first Vermeer had been completed. If one did not know where the damage had been, it was impossible to discern. But as the man was not in Darcy’s permanent employ it would necessitate arranging for a longer stay. Fortunately, a reply from Matthew Jennings had been received in the morning post, accepting an invitation to Pemberley. With his arrival expected the following day, Elizabeth had arranged for a small dinner party in welcome.