Portraits of Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  “I most definitely will NOT be sitting for another. Perhaps I have judged it unfairly, after all, it is not complete. Besides, I am sure Master Linder has much to do with the Barringtons as well as what you have requested. While I do enjoy Grace’s company, a bit of respite is in order. She tires me terribly. I often feel like I must police her interactions with poor Evie as well as keep Mr. Linder from being molested.”

  In truth, Elizabeth’s mind was not on the painting before them. She too had received correspondence that morning, but it was of a far greater delicacy in nature. Charlotte Collins had written with news that was both a relief, yet disturbing. She made no mention of expecting a child, only stating that Mr. Collins suspected no deceit, but all was not as it should be. Rather than prepare her home for the impending arrival, Charlotte begged an extended visit to Pemberley. As of yet, Elizabeth had yet to share this with Darcy. He too would see the behavior as strange, and possibly demand an explanation. However, as Georgiana would be accompanying her, he would be pleased by the return of his sister. Observing his wife’s silence, Darcy did not press the issue. Recalling his own objections years ago, when forced to sit for his portrait, he knew it was a battle that could not be won. Tradition had a way of being extremely inconvenient.

  “Well, I suppose we could always hang it in the cellar,” he teased, and was rewarded by a sharp elbow to his midsection, but the suggestion had its desired effect. Elizabeth now smiled at him despite her irritation.

  “Now that is a worthy place indeed.”

  “Perhaps we should relocate all of the older portraits to the cellars. We can dedicate the wine storage to the Darcy ancestors. From what I know of some of them, it is quite appropriate.”

  Elizabeth was unsure if he was still jesting, but nodded in agreement, before changing the subject. If she were to offer hospitality to Charlotte, an immediate reply was in order.

  “Speaking of the need for wine, have you heard from Georgiana? Surely she must be tired of your Aunt Catherine by now.”

  “No… and it worries me. She was elusive as to her reasons for remaining at Rosings. It would be nice to have her here while the painter is engaged as well. Perhaps I should write and insist she come home. Aunt Catherine is a martinet when it comes to duty.”

  “I have had a letter from Charlotte. She wishes to visit. This is an unusual request, and causes me to worry that all is not as it should be with Mr. Collins.”

  “I cannot imagine that life with him is easy, but Mrs. Collins did not go into marriage blindly. Do you think it wise to offer an escape?”

  Elizabeth sighed, Mr. Collins could refuse to allow his wife to leave, and it was not her place to interfere. But Charlotte was her friend and in a delicate situation. Imaging herself in a similar situation was not possible, but Elizabeth knew that many women often found themselves in desperate straits with no one to whom they could turn. Giving Darcy a beseeching look, he immediately relented.

  “Perhaps it will serve a dual purpose in bringing Georgiana home. After all, it would not be appropriate for her to go unaccompanied.”

  “Thank you, it will probably only be for a few weeks.”

  “I can deny you nothing.”

  Giving him a swift kiss, Elizabeth returned to her sitting room to extend an invitation. She had barely enough time to seal the letter before the arrival of the Barringtons was announced. Groaning at the prospect of hours in their company, Elizabeth forced herself to be pleasant, giving thanks that her own life was free of misery.

  ~Twenty-nine~

  Two days later…

  Elizabeth and Darcy greeted their guest with all the pleasantries one would expect of old friends. The return of the mysterious painting only served to cement the connection.

  “I am sorry for the delay, but I wanted to be entirely sure, and after consulting with a few other experts, the original assessment still holds true. Although it is clearly very well done, unless an authentication can be truly verified, it will only have sentimental value. I trust that you do not wish to part with it? It may fetch a small sum for its unusual aesthetic appeal, that sort of thing is currently all the rage. I may be able to find a buyer.”

  Darcy looked to Elizabeth for confirmation, and received a negative shake of her head before replying.

  “No, we are rather fond of it. Besides, it is clear that the female subject is my ancestor, Isabel Darcy. The painting should remain in the family.”

  “As you see fit,” replied Jennings, hiding his disappointment and changed the subject. Eventually, trivial conversation on the state of London society soon led to the topic of real estate and the sale of the Darcy townhome.

  “Have you had any luck? Had I the funds, I would be pleased to take the place off your hands, but I fear that the price is too dear for a museum curator.”

  “It may not be, if I cannot find someone soon. I am not willing to just let the house sit empty, it has been unused for far too long, but apparently, the disclosure laws are not working in my favor. No one wants a property, however good the square, in which a murder has taken place. Every prospective buyer has retracted interest after learning what happened. One would think that sort of thing would be forgotten by now,” Darcy said.

  “Nothing lasts longer than gossip,” Elizabeth added. Her tone was a trifle wistful, as if recalling distant memories, but she did not elaborate. Instead, she suggested they take Mr. Jennings’ opinion of her portrait.

  Entering the solarium, they found Thomas Linder busy at work. A long smock covered his clothing as he stood before the three nearly finished paintings. Startled by the arrival of his employer, he dropped the brush, sending a spatter of brown paint across the polished wood floors. Wincing as the drops found new homes, Linder frantically mopped up the mess with a solvent soaked rag.

  “No damage if cleaned quickly. Clumsiness has always been my Achilles’ heel,” he apologized.

  “No, it is our fault, should have announced our arrival, but it is a wonder to see you work.” Darcy insisted.

  “Indeed, I only recommend the best, is that not so Linder?”

  Jennings had stood slightly apart, eyeing the work critically. The likeness to Mrs. Darcy was unnerving, as to the two others, he suspected it was also true. Three commissions, no wonder it was taking so long! But the man was a true master, even if the world did not realize it. It was too bad that Linder was occupied at Pemberley, otherwise he may have been able to duplicate the Caravaggio. Unfortunately, another route would have to be taken to acquire that work. If all fell apart, he would not take any of the blame.

  “I say Linder, you have done well, but I did expect you back in London by now.”

  “That is my fault entirely,” Darcy insisted, “I requested Mr. Linder’s talents to repair a number of other works in our collection. Surely, you can spare him another month or so?”

  Jennings smiled, this confirmation was the news for which he was hoping. “Of course, it will also give us some time to catch up on museum business. Linder and I have a few matters to sort out, but I shall not keep him from his work.”

  To this, the painter simply nodded, but a feeling of unease filled him with dread. While he had done exactly as his master bid, his growing admiration and respect for the Darcys filled him with reservations. Was he good enough to fool Jennings? Did he dare provide him with the false paintings? The risk was great, should he be caught, death was a surety…a very painful and slow death.

  .

  ~Thirty~

  Late the next evening,

  Thomas Linder stole a glance at the young woman that had become his accomplice. It was a match of oddities that the lady’s maid was now wearing cast off breeches and was covered in paint as she assisted his efforts. He had to admit, she was a quick study and her nimble fingers were an asset when it came to stretching canvas. At first, he was doubtful that she would be anything more than a hindrance, but he had not dared to exclude her. The risk of Clara running immediately to Mrs. Darcy was too great. Her loyalty, w
hile commendable, could lead to disaster. As it was, they had little time to prepare. Jennings had slipped a note under his door, informing him of his desire to see what progress had been made. Hearing booted feet approaching, Thomas bid Clara to hide herself in the large wardrobe that held his meager belongings. It was the safest place for one to observe without notice. Not only was it filled with old canvas drop cloths to muffle her movements, there was also a door to the rear, obscured by what appeared to be solid wall. When he arrived, Thomas had arranged the chamber to suit his work, but when he moved the monstrous piece of furniture, it was to discover another door behind. This connected to a small storage area shared by the adjoining chamber. At present, it was unoccupied. If matters turned dire, Clara could escape. Not that he expected Jennings to attempt anything inside the walls of Pemberley, but one never knew. He had personally witnessed the curator do terrible things. Once, when another painter had cheated him, Jennings had removed the man’s small toes with a candle crimper. The sounds of the screaming still echoed in his memory.

  “Stay quiet until I let you out,” Linder cautioned, closing the wardrobe with a click, just as a harsh knock sounded on the chamber door before it scraped open, admitting Matthew Jennings in his dressing gown. Frowning, he held a candle high as he walked the room. By now, only four sets of paintings had been completed, the original side by side with the duplicate. In the wavering light, it was impossible to distinguish real from false.

  “Is this all you have?” Jennings demanded.

  “You want them to be perfect, don’t you? It takes time, plus the other portraits have occupied me.”

  “So, I hear, what do you mean by taking commissions without my authorization? Don’t think I won’t be getting my share.”

  “I could hardly refuse, besides there are at least twenty more to be done. This could take weeks, but I don’t know if I can finish…”

  Linder’s voice trailed deliberately as he held up his hands. They visibly shook, and bore deep red wounds where the skin had dried and cracked. He had always been sensitive to the linseed oil that was used to thin the paint, but if careful, it was manageable. When the knowledge of Jennings arrival had reached him, Thomas had boiled down the usual application to a thick paste. Although the mixture burned terribly, he hoped it would be effective to result in his dismissal.

  “You are of no use to me if you cannot paint… might I remind you of what happens to useless persons?”

  “N…no…I would never tell anyone anything!”

  “Indeed, you will not…I will arrange shipment for the end of the week. Have these wrapped and ready to go, am I clear?”

  Linder swallowed heavily and nodded. The realization that he would never be allowed to escape Jennings’ control did little to quell the shaking in his hands. Once alone again, he quickly washed his hands of the oil and donned a pair of white cotton gloves, before releasing Clara from her hiding place.

  “He is the worst of men. Even if you are crippled, he does not care. Can you not see that we must go to the Darcys?”

  Linder shook his head in refusal.

  “And say what? Their friend is a thief? We will both be sacked or worse. Remember, I have been the one doing the actual copies, not Jennings.”

  “Then we must arrange for the Darcys to catch him.”

  “You make it sound so easy…”

  “This Mr. Jennings of yours is arrogant, so much so that it will be his undoing. Just let me think of what to do.”

  “Just don’t take too long… he does not have a habit of waiting with good temper.”

  *****

  Matthew Jennings was indeed guilty of conceit, but it was only surpassed by avarice. His mannerisms had not gone unnoticed by Elizabeth, and now, outside the cold controlled atmosphere of the museum, a twinge of familiarity that had plagued her for months was finally resolved. Although it had been muffled, Elizabeth was now sure that the voice she had overheard arguing in the townhouse kitchens was that of Matthew Jennings.

  “Are you absolutely positive? It is a serious thing to accuse a respectable man of something like this,” Darcy asked gravely. The idea of being betrayed by not only a man he considered more friend than acquaintance, but also longstanding household staff was galling….no, it was horrifically embarrassing. Elizabeth was not a person to point fingers of blame without cause, and he trusted her implicitly, but nor would he jump to any immediate conclusions. This was a delicate matter and must be handled accordingly.

  “I will write to my solicitor immediately. He will investigate Mrs. Winston thoroughly. I have never done so, thinking it unnecessary as she had been established in the house since my father’s time. However, I don’t believe he was the one to engage her either. It may be that our townhouse has been the residence of misdeed for longer than the Darcy’s have been owners. We must wait until we hear further, but that does not mean that Jennings will not be watched.

  “I feel terrible, but it was when he wanted to buy our mystery painting that it struck me. He seemed so possessive of something he claims has no value… and then there is his voice.”

  “What of his voice? He sounds as he always has.”

  “It has taken me some consideration… but I would almost swear that his voice is the same as the man I heard in the kitchens that night so many weeks ago. Am I being fanciful?”

  Darcy frowned, but did not offer any logical argument to assuage her feelings. “I believe that I will take the opportunity to observe him myself while he is here. If there is something amiss about his intentions, it is best to be entirely sure. Once damage to one’s reputation is made, it is very difficult to repair, if ever truly possible at all. But I do hope we are wrong.”

  “As do I.”

  This caution did little to settle a growing feeling of unease that Darcy did not share with his wife. If there were disreputable occurrences in one of his households, it was his place to do something about it. Waiting until Elizabeth had fallen asleep, Darcy donned his dressing gown and wandered the house. As this was a long-standing habit since childhood, those servants who may yet be awake would not take alarm should he suddenly appear. However, after spending nearly an hour making the rounds of all three stories, he could discern nothing out of place and eventually retired but his dreams were restless. Pemberley had always been a safe haven, had he invited unrest into its serene walls?

  ~Thirty-one~

  One week later…

  Despite his nocturnal ramblings, Darcy could find no evidence to support any sort of illicit activity. This, when added to the impending return of Georgiana, allowed him to relax what had become a regular state of watchfulness. His home, returning to a state of quiet and comfort was also minus the Barrington ladies. All three portraits were now complete, save for a drying process before they could be hung. During this time, he had spent some hours watching the repair process of the library paintings. It was a process he hoped to learn, therefore forgoing the need to engage an outsider again. His initial distrust of Thomas Linder had begun to evaporate as the man not only diligently completed his tasks, but also endeared himself to all around. By now, all the servants were in possession of their own charcoal sketch portraits, a rare luxury given freely. It was only in his observation of how Linder changed his bearing each time Matthew Jennings was near. The painter stiffened visibly and often stammered his words. Clearly, he was afraid, but of what Darcy could not inquire without prying into personal business. Perhaps it was simply the awkwardness of being treated like a peer before his employer? Elizabeth extended every courtesy to the painter, having decided that her portrait was exactly to her liking. Knowing this to be false, Darcy could not fathom the reason for her change of opinion, other than that of charity. But, if it resulted in being done with the chore of her portrait, it mattered not and let the matter rest. To any observer, they were an aimable party of friends. That is, until Elizabeth asked Thomas Linder for his opinion on the strange painting of Isabel Darcy.

  “Mr. Linder? Have you not
seen our mystery painting? I must have your opinion on it, Mr. Jennings says it is of no value, as it is not signed, but it is a magnificent piece nonetheless.”

  This request, with its intent of friendly inclusion of the painter, was deemed an immediate insult by Matthew Jennings. His objections, so vehemently voiced, caused all present to wonder as to why.

  “I see no need for a hired painter to waste time on such. Linder? Haven’t you work to complete?” Jennings said with a strong tone of dismissal, but his words only served to irritate Elizabeth who called for the painting to be brought.

  “Oh Mr. Jennings, everyone must take some relaxation every now and then. You know what is said about all work and no play? Madeline? Can you fetch the painting from my bedchamber? I left it on the dressing table.”

  Bobbing a curtsey, the parlor maid went to do as bid, but returned less than five minutes later, empty handed.

  “It was not there, Madam. I looked about a bit, even asked Miss Smedley, but she had not seen it since yesterday.”

  “That is curious. I had hoped to find a place where Isabel Darcy’s formal portrait and the smaller one could be displayed together, but distinctly remember leaving it propped up against the mirror. I cannot imagine why it would have been moved by anyone.”

  “I am sure it will turn up eventually. Besides, it was of no value,” Matthew Jennings said casually.

  Darcy eyed his guest with irritation. Jennings was becoming far too quick to dismiss another’s belongings as insignificant.

  “Even so, we are rather fond of it.”

  “Perhaps it was moved by one of the other maids during cleaning,” Elizabeth suggested, she was disappointed, but not wanting to leave her guests to search, she changed the subject.