Any mention of her was removed from Mrs. Reynolds’ recitation of Derbyshire history. The single remnant of the story that dogged Pemberley was a question that Darcy asked but of himself. And when he did, it was with great disquiet. He did not at all understand how, with all the opprobrium surrounding their former neighbour, the duchess, why a member of the dignified Darcy family carried her name. Moreover, who had chosen to name his sister Georgiana? His mother, or his father?
With a scud of dust worthy a particularly impertinent cyclone, Robert Morland’s coach descended upon Pemberley. Protégé and heir apparent to Gainsborough, it was Morland who had won Mr. Darcy’s commission to paint his wife’s portrait.
Previously, nothing less than a request from St. James’s Palace could lure Morland from his studio in Bath for a sitting. Beyond royalty, all who sought his services were bade come to him. Darcy, however, demanded, by means of polite request, that the painter bring himself to Derbyshire at Elizabeth’s leisure. Morland seldom travelled from the healing waters of home and that city’s simpering adulation of him, and never to the incivility of Derbyshire’s fresh air. However, he had made haste to commence this work, understanding the portrait might well be the benchmark of his career.
Other than the King, the Queen, the Prince Regent, and sundry royal family members, few sittings were of more import than that of Mr. or Mrs. Darcy. As a young man, Mr. Darcy’s likeness had been taken by Sir Thomas Lawrence (Reynolds should have, but the poor man died in the year of ’92) and that gentleman was bid return for the honour of Miss Georgiana. Morland considered it quite a coup to wrest the Darcy commission from the courtly master.
Morland arrived at Pemberley with two assistants, five trunks, and an ill-temper. His poor disposition was a result of his most recent project, that of a bust of good King George. Not only did Morland’s genius fail to flower successfully in the unfamiliar setting of the royal court, but dementia had already descended upon George and he continually called Morland by Thomas Gainsborough’s name. Morland’s self-regard could not allow himself to admire another’s talent, even if poor Gainsborough was dead. By the very nature of the work, each artist competed (however each insisted not) with not just his contemporaries, but also the many who traversed the dicey water of artistic interpretation long before him. Thus there was reason aplenty to disparage, be it current or historical, competition.
Artistic integrity notwithstanding, Morland had a frightfully lucrative career emblazoning enormous canvases with the shamefully embellished countenances of the wealthy. That occupation demanded an artist straddle the sometimes perilously fine line betwixt likeness and flattery. It was always a relief to Morland if his client was not so unprepossessing as to frighten children. (There was one unfortunate aristocrat whose ill-fitting wooden teeth could not quite be contained by his lips. The pictorial results were disastrous. Morland tried not to think of it.)
It is not unusual for painters to become a bit enraptured with their clients. One must feel a certain fondness to do justice to a lady’s face and figure. (Ah! The figure!) Gainsborough had been more than a little smitten with the Duchess of Devonshire, else he would not have made three attempts to capture her likeness.
An artist’s predisposition to infatuation did not leave Morland’s sensibilities untouched. (The man fell in and out of love with all the regularity of the tide.) Moreover, if artists often were bewitched with their subjects, it was conversely true that the time and intimacy such an undertaking demanded lured (with considerable encouragement from Morland) more than one woman’s affection from a faithful path. Romantic intrigue was an exceedingly happy by-product of his profession, for seldom was there a man more taken with wenching. Even whilst under the very noses of their husbands, he was surprisingly successful upon eliciting these assignations. This phenomenon, no doubt, was the direct result of a widely held supposition that those of artistic sensibilities were a bit light in the slippers.
He adored women, women adored artists, and husbands dismissed said artists’ threat of wifely seduction. And he was paid handsomely. Was not life grand?
Perhaps the most salient amongst the many inducements to Morland’s accepting the Darcy commission was the reputed comeliness of the intended subject. As yet, her likeness had never been attempted (Mr. Darcy had a miniature, but that ilk was hardly worth noting). The notion spun Morland almost giddy. It was he who would be first to pluck the flower of her beauty for the world to savour. It was unto him that she would surrender her image. A union of souls. An exchange. A consummation.
So to speak.
By the time he arrived at Pemberley, Morland was so unstrung as to be almost prostrate with anticipation. He had tortured himself the length of the trip, alternately certain, then not, that Mrs. Darcy’s handsomeness had been exaggerated.
Ushered into the grand salon, he espied her sitting next to Mr. Darcy. Neither rose, demanding Morland cross the room to perfect a bow. He issued a respectful dip of the head, but just enough of a slack-wristed brush with his hand to his heart to insist his genuflection but a courtesy and not a true statement of obeisance. This little pantomime compleated, only then did he allow himself to look fully upon the face he held in such hopeful apprehension. His reaction could be described no other way than confounded.
He was both disappointed and fascinated and he stared upon her quite blatantly.
So long did his gaze tarry, he feared it was obvious to Mr. Darcy that his usual professionalism had abandoned him. For the great man arose, shifted about uneasily, and put a protective hand upon his wife’s shoulder. Mrs. Darcy, however, not in the least off-put, unsuccessfully contained a laugh. That she found amusement in his perusal of her countenance was, in and of itself, astounding. For even the grandest of ladies became flustered when he lavished his eye upon them in preparation of his rendering their likeness for eternity. Thus, he was immediately astounded, confounded, and roundly beguiled.
At first glance, he had dismissed those opinions that accused her of being a great beauty. He had seen many thus named, all more impressive than she. She was dressed demurely, wearing but a single strand of pearls. Her hair was quite dark, her face heart-shaped. Initial observation did not divulge a single feature that demanded the attention of a discerning eye. It was upon the second that he became enraptured. For when she did allow a laugh to escape, a slight rise of one eyebrow punctuated it. That little paraph of her countenance was undoubtedly the cause of a tantalising tickle in the pit of Morland’s stomach.
Indeed, she was not truly beautiful, but very pretty, and her eyes literally danced when she gazed up at her husband. It would be difficult to capture such a presence.
Eager was Morland to commence. He very nearly startled the Darcys by abruptly demanding a room to set his easel and arrange his paints. (“And it must have northern light!”)
Mr. Darcy may have harboured the prejudice that disparaged the masculinity of men of artistic bent, as it was one that was seldom questioned. But if he did, he was not so unenlightened as to believe it a universal truth. As his own appreciation of his wife’s pulchritude was considerable, he understood other men admired her as well. This acknowledgement, however, weathered any overt display of this admiration not at all. Whilst Morland bestowed long looks upon Elizabeth, he was watched by her husband with all the generosity of a sheepdog eyeing a wolf circle his flock.
Before blows were thrown, heads broken, or an unnamed portraitist was cast out upon his…nether-end, Elizabeth made a fortuitous demand upon her husband. If she must submit to the tedium of a sitting, thereupon he must keep her company.
Under any other circumstances, remaining idle for that length of time should have been a trial for a man of Darcy’s temperament. But her request meant he needed not to fabricate some excuse to stand sentry over her whilst she submitted to Morland’s attention. He could thereupon level his gimlet-eyed glare upon the painter without prejudice—for he was under specific invitation from his wife.
Whilst exacting an air of uxorious
ness heretofore unwitnessed by his wife (and making certain Morland heard him), he allowed, “There is no greater duty that I could find for myself than to sit with you, Elizabeth, dear.”
The disingenuousness of his declaration was not lost upon her, but as it fell to her own advantage, she chose to ignore it. The request that followed atoned for that little treacling flummery. It bespoke an undiluted artlessness.
“I shall meet your demand so long as you meet my own,” he told her. “I must have you wear a yellow dress.”
Hence, in constant repose and a yellow dress, Elizabeth was captive for many hours of the day. But her subjugation was not to Morland. Whilst she was unable to do anything but sit idly upon a rather purgatorial sofa, it was her husband who ensnared her.
He used no strops to tether her, but she was trapped as surely as if he had. With studied nonchalance, he sat to the left of Morland. One happening upon this placid little scene might think nothing of it. But as Elizabeth was the recipient of her husband’s exceedingly intimate and constant gaze, she would have argued his motive was not so benign as one might fancy.
Under his indefatigable scrutiny, inevitably a flush began deep within her bosom and crept upward. He might alter his position ever so slightly, perchance move one booted foot forward and rest his wrist insouciantly upon the arm of his chair. Her rubescence tingled up her throat. With a settling of his chin upon an upturned fist (and further shifting of his immense boots), she sensed his eyes trace her crimsoning (or at least staring from whence it flowed). Not unexpectedly, her pulse quickened.
Away she looked. Out the window to admire the fine weather, to the ceiling to count the tiles. She retraced piano concertos in her mind, fought to remember a flower for every letter of the alphabet, and counted sheep. But her thoughts eventually wafted back to her husband who sat in purported dégagé, mercilessly seducing her from across the room.
As it came to be, it was but Morland’s romantic ambition that was thwarted. The poor man might have advanced his time at least upon the portrait project more economically were it not for an invariable interruption mid-afternoon. Upon those occasions, much to Morland’s displeasure, Mr. Darcy rose and asserted that his wife was looking tired and must be escorted upstairs for a “rest.”
After perhaps an hour, she returned upon his arm, moon-eyed and prepossessingly flushed, which was annoyance enough. Insufferably grating to Morland, however, was Mr. Darcy’s indocile hubris about whatever had been wrought whilst “resting.” Not understanding Mr. Darcy did not intend subtlety, Morland thought himself quite undeceived by such flimsy subterfuge. Hence, came his reluctant acceptance.
He would not find a romantic conquest at Pemberley. However, a handsome fee would at least amply compensate him. For even with such interference, the portrait was turning out even better than his considerable ego had ever hoped.
Morland toiled upon his work in early spring. The artist had been encamped at Pemberley but a week when Georgiana returned for a brief respite from the tribulations of town.
Through determined eavesdropping Morland learned that although young Miss Darcy was socially unambitious, at eighteen, it was time for her coming out. All the important engagements would begin immediately after Easter. The family’s imminent decampment from the country to town instigated a great flurry of activity.
London! All and sundry could speak of nothing else. Even the word made Morland’s heart take a scuttering little leap. For if his finishing strokes were made with the perfection of which he knew himself capable, the painting should be a masterpiece.
Succès d’estime. He would not return to Bath. He would take the painting with him to London. There, it would be shown at the Royal Academy of Art. In May was its Annual Exhibition of Contemporary Artists. And all the art community’s naysayers and curmudgeons would fall to the ground and kiss the feet of Robert Morland as the most illustrious artist in England—in the world! (Dash those Dutch painters!)
A knighthood should follow.
Wresting his considerable ambition into some sort of order, he restrained Elizabeth from plans of presentation gowns long enough to make his final touches. In those few hours he made but a half dozen brush strokes. Thereupon he sat looking at the painting with all the intensity he had once bestowed upon Elizabeth’s person. His transient infatuation with her had transfigured into compleat and unmitigated love for the painting he had created. Morland carelessly tossed his palette onto a table and with a melodramatic flourish, laid down his brush.
It was compleated.
“Voilà!” he announced.
A call rang out. Everyone was bid attend the unveiling. Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Georgiana, Mrs. Reynolds, and as many upper-level servants as could fit were herded into a tight group. Some amongst their number inched forward, certain an event of historical proportions was to commence.
Morland sat in a chair, his elbows resting upon the arms, fingers forming a steeple that he tapped nervously against his lips. The painting was wet still, hence turned from view. Two assistants stood expectantly upon either side of it, awaiting the master’s instruction.
He signaled with a single dramatic nod of his head.
After the cumbersome painting was wheeled about, the three Darcys and Mrs. Reynolds stood transfixed. A murmur arose from those within the second tier of onlookers. Elizabeth turned her head slightly to the left and narrowed her eyes. Georgiana and Mrs. Reynolds simultaneously let out a deep, appreciative sigh.
The reaction did not quite reach the level of true adulation in that neither of his feet was kissed, but it came near enough for Morland to believe he had not underestimated his work. Accolades were enthusiastic and plentiful.
Better schooled in the arts than either Elizabeth or her brother, Georgiana gushed forth her praise. Elizabeth said Morland flattered her countenance. Mrs. Reynolds wiped a tear from her eye.
Whilst these various congratulations occurred, Darcy stood quite still, eyeing the portrait intently. In a moment, the others realised the Master of Pemberley had not yet rendered a verdict and grew silent. The time he had spent omniscient of Mr. Darcy’s reticent presence had taught Morland an eruption of gratitude from that man was unlikely.
Hence, when Darcy’s attention finally quitted the painting and turned to the painter, Morland veritably trembled with anticipation.
Though Darcy said quite simply, “I thank you,” he shook Morland’s hand even more firmly than usual.
That slight increase of pressure was the extent of Mr. Darcy’s praise. And so parsimonious was his reputation upon extending aggrandisement, even Morland was content.
Indeed, Morland breathed a sigh of relief that the painting he knew to be remarkable met with Mr. Darcy’s approval. The obstacle of Mr. Darcy’s curt opinion overcome, talk turned to how long to allow for the painting to ripen before it could be framed. Ten days was the allowance. Darcy announced a framer was to travel from London to mount it upon the premises.
“But,” Morland interrupted, “I can take it with me. I shall have it framed in time for exhibition.”
“Exhibition,” Darcy repeated.
“Yes,” Morland explained patiently, “The Royal Academy exhibits in May. The timing shall be perfect.”
“I do not understand,” Darcy said, endeavouring to make Morland cognisant of the fact it was he who did not understand.
That comprehension, however, escaped the painter. Alarmed that Mr. Darcy somehow did not fathom the importance of the work or the exhibition, Morland attempted to explain further.
“Your wife’s portrait will hang as the best in England, reviewed by the king himself. There is no greater honour for Mrs. Darcy.”
Darcy understood full well that any lionisation primarily benefited the artist. But, he knew, too, it was a great honour for Elizabeth. Truly, he did not want to deny her such a prestigious honour; thus, he was conflicted. Proud as he was of her beauty and happy for her to be admired, he, nonetheless, wanted any admiration of his wife to be couched fro
m a distance. He had not commissioned the portrait for anyone to gaze upon but himself at Pemberley. The idea of any man off the street gawking at her as if she was an actress upon a playbill was detestable. Her painting might be engraved and printed in a book, or worse (heaven save us from perdition!), in a newspaper. No. It would not do.
Intractable as were his wishes upon the matter, he, nevertheless, looked to his wife to see if she favoured exhibition.
“The painting is yours,” she said. “The choice is yours as well.”
No hindrance stood in his way. Thus, Darcy was adamant in objecting. Morland cajoled, pleaded, and came perilously close to threatening violence, but to no avail. Finally convinced Mr. Darcy’s mind could not be swayed, he stamped his foot in petulant embrace of his pertinacity. Trailed by his two assistants, he fled the room near tears, his fingers pinching the top of his nose as if to stanch his weeping. Those who remained in the room stood in embarrassed silence.
Georgiana, while not abandoning loyalty to her brother, found herself sympathetic to poor Morland and said so.
“Poor Mr. Morland.”
Not so certain the pitiable Morland would not undertake a rash act, Darcy had his man stand guard over the painting that night. It was, of course, but the utmost of coincidence that “poor” Mr. Morland’s assistants were found in the darkened corridor long after midnight, both insisting they were upon their way to the kitchen for a “late supper.”
So poor Mr. Morland departed the next morning, slouched in despondence, more convinced than anyone else of his ill-treatment. He vowed to everyone whom he could inveigle to listen that he was never to paint again. His two servitors chose to ride in overcrowded congeniality with the coachman atop the carriage, whose coarse company was far preferable to the cultured but querulous Morland. His purse might have been amply moneyed, but his reputation was no more enriched than whence he came.
Elizabeth felt certain sympathy for him, but just that he had contrived to use a commissioned painting to advance his own reputation. Perhaps he should have been warned in advance that Mr. Darcy cared little for public acclaim, for himself or his family. Prestige was inherent in the Darcy name.
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