Portraits of Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  “I declare, it will be nice to have Georgiana home again, and see Charlotte. Mr. Linder, you remember Miss Darcy and Mrs. Collins? Do you think it would be possible to have them sit for portraits as well? Miss Darcy needs to have a formal one, but Mrs. Collins may take some convincing. As she is to have a child soon, I should like to make a gift of it.”

  “If they are willing, then I should be happy to oblige, if Mr. Jennings can spare me further?”

  Matthew Jennings had been oddly silent at the mention of Miss Darcy and Mrs. Collins. He stared off at some unknown fixed point of distraction.

  “Mr. Jennings? What say you to our monopoly of your best painter?” Darcy inquired a bit louder, to bring the curator’s attentions back to the conversation.

  “My apologies, what did you say?”

  “I asked if you could spare Mr. Linder further… say another month? My sister and Mrs. Darcy’s friend are to arrive tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that should be pleasant…Do excuse me, I am suddenly not feeling well.”

  “Is there anything we can do? Mrs. Reynolds is a regular apothecary for headaches and upset stomachs.”

  “No, no, it will probably pass if I retire early.”

  “As you see fit, but do not hesitate to ring if necessary.”

  Matthew Jennings rose and left the sitting room. His absence left the Darcys alone with Thomas Linder in an awkward silence. Although it was not said aloud, all present had the feeling that it was not a sour stomach or migraine that had caused Jennings sudden departure. But with no evidence to suggest otherwise, each kept their own counsel.

  “I believe I too must retire early. Daylight is rather limited this time of year and I will need to rise early if the best advantage is to be had. The restoration on the Titan will be finished in a few days.”

  “Of course, good night then,” Elizabeth and Darcy said in unison, but neither believed the painter’s excuse either. Once alone, Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief to match her husband’s frowning countenance.

  “Something is not right between those two, but it may not be any of our business. However, Mr. Linder will not be the only one to rise at dawn. I plan on turning this house upside down if needed to find that painting. Misplaced my foot! Someone has taken it, and will suffer the consequence of their actions.”

  *****

  The moment the parlor door closed behind him; Matthew Jennings took the stairs to his chamber by twos. As he did so, a number of plausible excuses rushed through his thoughts. He needed to conclude his business at Pemberley immediately. The Caravaggio painting, purloined from Mrs. Darcy’s chamber, was hidden in a drawer with his small clothes. He had hoped its absence to go unnoticed, but the woman had formed some sort of fixation upon the piece. It would now be impossible to take it from Pemberley without suspicion. However, there was still one possibility remaining, and it would ease the transport of the Darcy masterpieces, making him a hero in the process. The only hindrance to his plan was time…and the arrival of Charlotte Collins.

  Sighing, Jennings cursed his foolishness, but he had been a lonely idiot. His career, in addition to the smuggling, had left no time for any sort of permanent female companionship. The indiscretion had been purely by accident. He had not even known her name the first time, thinking it a fleeting pleasure. Weakness had driven him to discover her identity and arranging meetings every time he moved artworks from Rosings. Then, just as suddenly, it was over, she had not shown the last two times, making excuses not to see him. While Charlotte may have chosen to forget him, he could not put her out of his thoughts. The risk of seeing her face again would be ruinous, especially with the knowledge that she was carrying a child. Was it his? After all, she was married, even if it was to a total cuckhold. What could he offer her? Dismissing the thoughts, Jennings began to pack up his belongings, taking a precious moment to study the Caravaggio one last time before tucking it away at the bottom of his traveling case. It was as if he were the man in the mirror, reaching out to a lonely vicar’s wife. An impossible situation, it was one that could not be remedied by any panacea. What mattered most was that he was got away from Pemberley immediately…but not without the art.

  ~Thirty-two~

  Early the next morning, before a search could commence, the Darcy’s light breakfast was disturbed by the arrival of a messenger. After offering the man some refreshment, Darcy waited until he and Elizabeth were alone before breaking the seal on the letter. “It is from Arthur Grandby, my solicitor. He must have discovered something quite dire to necessitate the speed of a personal courier.”

  Scanning the short note, Darcys countenance altered from one of puzzled concern to that of restrained anger.

  “I feel like such an idiot. How could this have gone without discovery?”

  “What? What is so terrible?”

  Handing Elizabeth the paper, Darcy, despite the early hour, rose and poured a measure of brandy into his tea. A bit of fortification was in need to repress his desire to throttle a man he believed to be a friend as she read the note aloud.

  It is with a heaviness of regret that I must send this information within the hands of another instead of telling you myself, but knowing that you would prefer its immediacy to delay, I will provide what unfortunate knowledge has been gained. Mr. Matthew Jennings, curator of the British Museum of Art, has been falsely representing himself in the omission of certain disreputable connections to a member of your London household. Mrs. Abigail Winston, currently employed as housekeeper, is the natural mother of Mr. Jennings. However, that is not unusual. He was raised by his father, the late Wendell Jennings Esq. It is the nature of Mrs. Winston’s husband, Archibald Winston, also deceased, as a convicted smuggler of antiquities. Mr. Winston was also suspect in the very murder that took place in the Darcy townhouse, but no credible witnesses would come forward, the charges did not stand. As you may imagine, this history does place an air of suspicion upon Mr. Jennings in regards to your present concerns. If I may be of further assistance, please do not hesitate to call upon me.

  Arthur Grandby Esq.

  “Oh my, that does indeed confirm that Mr. Jennings is not what he seems. I believe with surety now, that it was indeed he that I overheard speaking about “moving things” and not getting caught. What do you propose we do? Call the authorities?”

  “Not yet, I should like to hear his side of the story. I do not want to place blame because of an unfortunate connection. It is possible that since my father kept Mrs. Winston in his employ, they believed that all were aware.”

  “But that does not answer the question as to what they were speaking. Surely that is something disreputable.”

  “Let us find the missing painting first, then speak with Jennings.”

  “And if we do not discover its whereabouts?”

  “Then I may also suspect him of theft. He was rather strange about Linder not seeing it.”

  Beginning with the place in which it was last seen, they made a complete inspection of Elizabeth’s suite of rooms, revealing no sign of the painting. If anything, it was a bit untidy, as if forgotten by the maid’s daily round of cleaning.

  “Look here, it is the brown paper in which it was wrapped, folded just as I left it, but not in the same place. It was under the painting. I used it to prop it up against the mirror. Someone has clearly taken it,” Elizabeth insisted, but before Darcy could reply, a shrill scream of terror echoed from the floor above. The voice, clearly female, traveled down the connecting fireplace like a tormented spirit.

  “What the Devil is going on around here!”

  “That sounds like Clara! Something terrible must have happened!”

  Taking the nearest stair, Elizabeth and Darcy arrived in the servant’s hall to discover a small crowd of Pemberley’s staff gathered in the open doorway to the chamber allocated to Thomas Linder. Parting to allow their entry, the assortment of onlookers slowly drifted away to their duties when met by a scowling master. Only Mrs. Reynolds remained to provide what assista
nce may be needed. Inside, a weeping Clara rocked the unconscious form of the painter in her arms. A mark upon his head, perhaps from a fall, was swelling purple around where it oozed blood, attesting to the reason for her distress. But it was clearly not severe enough to render him senseless, the overpowering odor of mineral spirits had taken the air from the chamber. Heavy amounts of the liquid doused the painter’s clothing and puddled upon the floor. Kneeling down as Elizabeth threw open the casement window, Darcy pried her arms from his prostrate form. “Clara? What happened?”

  “Mr…Mr. Jennings… he and Thomas had a terrible argument.”

  A low expletive erupted from Darcy’s normally reserved manner. His patience was at an all time low, but this was not the place for indulgences in temper.

  “Is he dead?” Elizabeth inquired softly. The maid had not risen, but sat swaying from side to side, crying quietly.

  “No, but he is badly hurt. Mrs. Reynolds? See that the doctor is fetched immediately and have every available man search for Mr. Jennings. When you do, do not harm him, just detain…tie him up if necessary and put him in the cold room. Mrs. Darcy will tend to Clara.”

  “Should I also send for the police sir?”

  “No… not yet.”

  To these calm orders, Linder moaned, his eyes fluttering open for a moment, registering their presence before closing again.

  “Help me get him to his bed.”

  Elizabeth cast a glance at Clara before doing as requested. The girl was hysterical, but not in immediate danger. She could be questioned later. Once abed, and no fear of his imminent demise presented, the state of the chamber became of primary notice. It appeared as if a great storm had blown through. Canvases and paint lay haphazard as if tossed about by giant hands. The original metal can of solvent, now empty, had rolled into a corner. Even in its disarray, one oddity stood out. There were nearly a dozen paintings in various states of completion. Two, rested next to their intact twin. Moving about, Darcy and Elizabeth matched up the paintings, finding an additional three more from the library, but they lacked mates.

  “I have not seen many of these before. From wherever did they come?”

  “The attics. These belong to my family… old and valuable, but not fashionable enough to warrant constant display. Only those,” he said with a gesture to the Renaissance works, “are of great worth. It appears that Mr. Linder has been rather busy…making copies. It is a fortunate thing that there is no fire in the hearth, these fumes are enough to cause an explosion.”

  By now, Clara had recovered herself enough to cease crying and now cowered in a corner, but whatever had frightened her so, had not destroyed her speech. Fueled by a natural desire to see justice, she began her defense of the injured painter. Directing her pleas to Elizabeth, Clara implored her sympathy.

  “It wasn’t his fault… that Jennings man made him do it… threatened to hurt him… and now look what happened. I tried to tell you, but he’s Mr. Darcy’s friend. At first, I thought Mr. Darcy were part of it, especially after seeing all the stuff in the cellars. But that was before I knew Thomas… he’s not a bad man, truly.”

  As if in agreement, Thomas Linder moaned again in his delirium, but the arrival of the doctor prevented further inquiry.

  “Go to your chamber and lock the door. Do not come out until I send for you. Do you understand? I need to find Jennings, if he is agreeable to this level of violence, there is no telling what he may do.” Darcy ordered. He was not about to let anyone bring harm to Pemberley or his people.

  ~Thirty-three~

  Matthew Jennings hastily loaded the small curricle, packing it tightly against what would eventually be a jostling ride. It would be of no use to get all the way to London if the paintings were ruined. Having left a note explaining his sudden departure, he hoped to have considerable distance between himself and Pemberley before anyone was the wiser. Rubbing his sore hand, he swore quietly at the sight of the bruised knuckles, but it had been necessary. Thomas Linder was not the first to believe he could do as he wished, but eventually, they all learned who gave the orders and what happened if refused. He’d recover, but not without a headache for the next week. Stepping up into the driver’s seat, he shook the reins to put his horse in motion and turned out onto the drive. It was a quiet morning, only the birds twittered as he passed the reflecting pond, causing Jennings to smile smugly. As the Darcy’s lay slumbering, he was making away with their priceless possessions. At least Linder had managed that. In the back, alongside the Caravaggio, he had a total of four Dutch Renaissance paintings, and one particularly fine Titian. It was too bad that such work took so long, but that was why prices for the pieces were dear. Rolling to the gates, he waved nonchalantly to the guard who bowed as he opened the portal to his escape.

  “Good day for a drive sir.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Jennings replied, but his mind had begun to wander elsewhere. With the sale of the cache, he would be able to disappear forever. Only his mother and that cook, Meg, remained a problem. A bit of remorse twinged him, but it quickly passed. Women did have a terrible time keeping their mouths shut. Always nagging and telling him what to do, they never appreciated what he did for them unless it involved costly gifts. His own mother was no better than a common whore. He had played the dutiful son long enough, but the memory of being sent off to his father had never diminished.

  “Archie and I are getting married… he isn’t ready for any children,” she had simply said when he had been placed in boarding school. Even though old Wendell Jennings had paid for his education, he was not about to acknowledge a liaison with a housekeeper. Lies and more lies had been told to create a spotless reputation, and for what? Nothing! He was a well learned thief; acceptance of that had made him rich, but not respectable. Matthew Jennings would never hold a candle to a Darcy. The acquaintance of Fitzwilliam Darcy and his lovely bride sparked a simmering resentment that could not be quelled. It filled his thoughts so much that he did not hear the sound of pounding horse’s hooves until they were nearly upon him. Turning to see who rode in such haste, fear ripped through him at the sight of Darcy himself, racing to catch him.

  “Jennings! Stop I say! Go no further!”

  Pulling up on the reins to halt the curricle, Matthew Jennings prepared a feigned countenance of concerned denial. He had not expected his absence to be noted for some hours, but he was practiced in evasion.

  “Darcy! What is the cause of this? I apologize for leaving without notice, but I had forgotten an important meeting in London this afternoon. I must make haste or jeopardize my position with the museum; it concerns a rather important benefactor, but surely you did not chase me down simply to say good-bye?”

  “Do not toy with me! I know all about your schemes to steal from me and what you did to Thomas Linder. In insist you allow me to see the contents of your trunks. The authorities are already visiting my townhome with intent to arrest your mother,” Darcy lied. No police had been notified, at Pemberley or in London. He did not enjoy falsehoods, but the need to allow Jennings to self-incriminate was crucial.

  “My mother? Dear Darcy, you must be unwell. My mother died when I was a child, you have always known that. As for stealing? What could I have stolen? Am I to be blamed for the misplacement of a worthless painting? I suggest you interrogate your servants or Linder himself. Despite his talent, he has been taking liberties well above his station. Now if you will excuse me, I see that our acquaintance is no longer of a friendly nature,” Jennings replied and urged the horse forward once again.

  Not to be denied, Darcy rode before the carriage and removed a small pistol from his coat. It was a last resort, but he would inspect the contents of Jennings’ carriage.

  Seeing no alternative, Jennings moved as if to alight, waving a hand of caution at the pistol. Dropping the muzzle lower at the sign of acquiescence, Darcy was caught off guard by the sudden rearage of the carriage horse as Jennings turned and applied the whip with ferocity. Charging forward, Darcy’s own mount rear
ed, nearly unseating him. The distraction was perfection in allowing Jennings to make his escape, tearing at great speed down the vacant country road. But his relief was temporary as a recovered Darcy soon made chase. With clods of dirt flying, the two raced forward, but the distance soon closed as the heavier conveyance began to sway under the duress. Heedless to the danger, Jennings continued to apply the whip, even as the road began to curve around a copse of evergreens. The thicket, with its ancient branches reaching towards the sky, blocked all view of the large slow-moving coach that approached from the opposite direction. Lumbering along as it meandered down the lane, its startled occupants received an excellent view of the chase, but had no way to warn the oncoming riders. In an attempt to evade a collision, the coach driver pulled over as far as possible, but the roadway was narrow, with steep embankments on either side. There was simply nowhere to go. Shouting out an alarm, the call fell on deaf ears as Jennings’ sole thoughts were to evade Fitzwilliam Darcy. Turning back to judge the distance between, Jennings saw the coach just as his horse lost footing and stumbled. Within a second, it was far too late to stop the what had been set in motion. Gravity pulled the curricle as Jennings’ horse struggled to stand, sending it careening over the embankment. Screams of terror echoed throughout the countryside as the ladies of the coach watched in horror. Tumbling end over end, the smaller vehicle was near splinters by the time it stopped, tossing it’s driver like a doll from his seat. The resounding thud as Jennings’ body landed, although soft in comparison, seemed to reverberate through all who witnessed his terrible demise. Only the continued cries of the injured horse broke the eventual silence.

  Darcy, although having been in possession of greater knowledge of that particular stretch of road, had been unable to stop the disaster. Nearing the site, his original anger turned to a mixture of remorse and trepidation, for the large carriage that had caused the accident bore the crest of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. In his haste to chase down Matthew Jennings, it had not only resulted in the death of a man he once thought to be a friend, but also endangered his own sister. Now alighting with the assistance of their driver, Miss Georgiana Darcy, accompanied by Mrs. Charlotte Collins, embraced the master of Pemberley.