by Maria Grace
by
Maria Grace
Published by White Soup Press
Inspiration
Copyright © 2019 Maria Grace
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,
in any format whatsoever.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information address
[email protected]
ISBN-13: 978-0692530955 (White Soup Press)
Author’s Website: http://RandomBitsofFascination.com
Email address: [email protected]
“Grace has quickly become one of my favorite authors of Austen-inspired fiction. Her love of Austen’s characters and the Regency era shine through in all of her novels.” Diary of an Eccentric
Inspiration
His muse desires her; she detests him. How will his soul survive?
Gentleman artist Fitzwilliam Darcy had never been able to express himself in words, but with his brushes and paints, he expressed what few men ever could. When his flighty muse abandons him, though, he finds himself staring at blank canvases in a world that has turned bland and cold and grey.
Worried for his friend, Charles Bingley invites Darcy to join him in Hertfordshire, in hopes the picturesque countryside might tempt Darcy's muse to return. The scheme works only too well. His muse returns, with a vengeance, fixated upon the one young woman in the county who utterly detests him.
Will his selfish distain for the feelings of others drive her and his muse away or can he find a way to please this woman with the power to bring color and feeling back into his world?
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DEDICATION
For my husband and sons.
You have always believed in me.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Epilogue
Thank you!
Other books by Maria Grace:
Free ebooks
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Darcy set down his paintbrush and flexed his shoulders, his cravat constricting his throat as he did. The comforting, lingering, nutty scent of linseed oil hung in the air at the edges of his awareness, almost unnoticeable after hours of smelling it. How long had he been staring at the rough sketch on his canvas? Judging by the shadows the two easels cast on the scuffed wood floor and the vague chill that had crept into the air, it had been hours.
The light through the attic windows was waning. Might as well stop the exercise in futility now.
“Are you finished?” Charles Bingley peeked around his easel and waved a paintbrush at Darcy, flinging little gobbets of ocher paint onto the floor. Was that how he had managed to get paint in his hair as well?
That sort of mess was precisely why he did not bother to have this floor properly finished, and the room was largely devoid of furnishings except the easels, stools, and what was used to store his supplies.
“Hardly.” Darcy turned his back and fiddled with his paints. Ultimately a servant would come and clean up for him, but perhaps if he appeared occupied, Bingley would not continue to press for conversation.
“I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to use your studio space. You were right. The attics at Darcy House offer the most marvelous light in the whole of London, I should say.” Bingley wiped his hands on his paint-stained apron and sauntered toward him. Even his confident steps sounded intrusive.
Darcy grumbled and muttered under his breath.
“Still blocked, are you?” Bingley inspected Darcy’s work from several angles. “Not a lick of paint on the canvas all morning?”
“As you can see.” No, it was not polite to snarl, but Bingley had earned it.
Bingley pulled Darcy’s high stool close and perched one hip on it. “I am hardly the artist you are, but even I can see you are in quite a muddle here. You have never been so hindered in all the time I have known you. Back at university, you were at the easel every spare moment you had, producing quite accomplished works regularly. You could have made quite a living as a painter had you not already been a gentleman.”
“How kind of you to remind me of the height from which I have fallen.” Darcy rolled his eyes and turned his back on Bingley.
“I am worried about you. Never have I seen anything drive you to distraction as this seems to have.”
“Should I thank you for stating the obvious?” Darcy dropped his brush. A large smear of burnt umber appeared on the floor where it fell.
“Let me help you.”
He whirled to face Bingley. “And exactly how do you propose to do that? Will you take my hand in yours and apply paint to the canvas for me?”
Bingley laughed, that easy, warm chuckle he had always had. His good nature could be maddening at times like these. “Hardly. It is no secret that I will never be the sort of artist you are—and that I do not resent you for your talent, which is quite big of me, I would say. I dabble for my own amusement, but you—you paint as though your very life and soul were poured into the efforts, as though it were a matter of life and breath that you create your works. And it is tearing you to pieces that you have produced nothing in—how long is it now?”
“Six months.” The words sounded like a death sentence.
“So then, allow me to help you.”
“What do you propose?” Why did he even ask? There was nothing anyone could do until this awful bleakness passed of its own accord.
“You have been ensconced in this studio for months with nothing but the confines of London to inspire you. You need to get away. The countryside is always inspiring. Come with me to Hertfordshire. I mean to rent a house there, get the feel of having an estate, you know. I could use your advice. And if Netherfield Park is suitable, you can stay with me there. Perhaps the change in venue will present you with some heretofore elusive inspiration.”
The idea was dreadful and intriguing all at the same time. Leaving London meant travel, and that was inconvenient. And it meant dealing with people, meeting with them, interacting with them, probably hating them. All of which were also inconvenient and uncomfortable.
But staying in town was doing him no good, either. “I suppose I can accompany you before I return to Pemberley.”
∞∞∞
The journey to Hertfordshire had not been unpleasant—a few hours on horseback in fine September weather were good for the soul. And what was good for the soul was also good for one’s muse. Certainly, it—she—had not been resurrected, not yet, but there were vague stirrings within, the kind related to creative energies, not the revenge of last night’s supper.
Perhaps Bingley was right. There was something about the countryside, or perhaps it was being in an unfamiliar place with so much potential for discovery. Whatever it was, artistic surges bubbled and teased, tickled and prodded his heart and mind as they had not in months. For that reason alone, he would have recommended that Bingley take Netherfield, no matter how dreadful the establishment.
Luckily, the house and grounds were good, so he could make his endorsements with a clear conscience.
∞∞∞
After just over a fortnight in the country, it was difficult to pronounce Bingley right or wrong. Darcy had produced two landscapes—one of the Netherfield house
itself—and a still life of some random bric-a-brac scavenged from various rooms of the house. They were journeyman’s efforts at best, hardly anything to be proud of and certainly not satisfying to behold. But they were the first completed works he had produced since Easter and the dreaded visit to Rosings Park.
It was difficult not to curse Aunt Catherine for that.
Perhaps that was the source of his troubles now. Ever since she started pushing him to fix a date for his wedding to Anne, all creative compulsions had ceased. But how could they not? Contemplating life fixed to that dry, wizened shell of a woman who scarcely had an original idea. By Jove, she barely said a word of her own volition! His soul withered in his chest every time he shared space with her. How could he possibly be expected to live like that?
Chest tightening, aching at the very thought, he paced his spacious guest quarters. Perhaps he could outrun the sensation before he resorted to canceling his plans.
Bingley pounded on his door. “Are you nearly ready, Darce? The ladies are in the parlor waiting for us.”
Darcy glanced in the mirror and straightened his cravat, the sense of suffocation fading. His valet had done a good job tonight. Not that he had anyone to impress in this quaint market town, but being properly attired was a comfort of its own. “I am coming directly.”
Bingley’s distinct footfalls strode away.
A simple country assembly should not be such a trial; surely, none would agree it was something to be dreaded. And yet it was so. Dancing with unfamiliar partners was abhorrent and, truth be told, embarrassing. Inevitably, he would find himself staring at his partner, analyzing the shape of her eyes, the lines of her nose, the usually imperfect symmetry of her face, considering how it might be subtly and skillfully improved when rendered in charcoal or crayon or paint.
Such attentions, when noticed, were bad enough, but heaven help him if his eyes drifted lower, to necklines that were far too intriguing in the ways they played with light and shadow. No young lady had ever been able to accept that such attentions were artistic, not—ah, more personal in nature. They expected he meant far more than he ever did, and it never ended well.
Perhaps tonight, though, with his muse not quite fully awakened, he could avoid such uncomfortable encounters. If not, there was always the card room.
∞∞∞
Bingley’s coach trundled along the carriage line on the approach to the assembly rooms. Ordinary and unassuming was the best that could be said of the building. Absolutely the best. The rest was not appropriate to dwell upon and could very well poison him for the rest of the evening.
After all, how was one to enjoy himself in an environment so drab, dreary, and awkward? Was not beauty an essential quality of any such event?
They picked their way across the muddy, rutted street and waited their turn to enter the assembly rooms. An uneven, tired blue covered the walls. It might have been as appealing as a robin’s egg when newly painted, but now it just whimpered to leave it alone and let it rest. Scuffed, even gouged in places, the floors cried out for mercy. And the paintings littering the walls—enough! Such thoughts were absolutely not helpful.
Presently, a round-faced, red-cheeked, potbellied man wearing a Master of Ceremonies sash greeted them. He seemed a bit pompous, full of himself, as though he were at an assembly in Bath, offering to make introductions for them. Bingley readily agreed as Darcy stifled a sigh. But then, Bingley enjoyed meeting new people.
The whole experience of being paraded around and introduced was to be expected—and dreaded. It was simply what happened at such events. Still though, from the looks the party garnered—and the glances fixed on Darcy alone—it was clear that their servants had already taken care of circulating word of the general level of wealth and connections their party brought with them.
It should not bother him that the entire room seemed ready to approve of him and gladly admit him into their acquaintance on so little a recommendation. Aunt Catherine would have declared it was the right and proper reaction, and it was, in fact, their due for being part of the best society in England. Many would agree with her, but Darcy did not.
Beauty, in all its forms, and the admirable qualities that went with it, were often found quite outside such trivial circles. Many times, it lurked in unexpected arenas. But Aunt Catherine would hardly admit such uncouth ideas.
Now was definitely neither the time nor the place to chance discovering intriguing sorts of beauty. Acquainted with no one in the room, he could not risk it. So, he danced once with Mrs. Hurst, whose beauty was unremarkable to be sure, and once with Miss Bingley, who was attractive enough but in the ordinary sort of way of the upper class.
What would her reaction be if she knew he found her beauty common enough to be of little note? How angry she would be—then she might be of more interest. Women could be fascinating when they were angry—the subtle expressions of their eyes, the tension in their throats…but Miss Bingley would hardly appreciate such things.
Once he had danced those two sets, he spent the rest of the evening walking about the room, speaking only to those of his own party, much to the obvious disapproval of the denizens of Meryton. The way they looked at him and whispered among themselves! No doubt they had decided he was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world.
It was not the first time he had seen those looks, and doubtless it would not be the last. At least at home in Derbyshire, he was better regarded, having had the opportunity to demonstrate his true character there. Perhaps, his muse willing of course, he would return there in a few weeks, able to pursue his art in the sanctuary of his own home surroundings.
He paused in his circuit around the room. Bingley had found a lovely partner, probably the prettiest girl in the room. He and she danced together particularly well. So well, in fact, that Bingley wore a decidedly puppyish smile as he gazed at her.
Lovely, he had found yet another “angel” for his attentions. What was her name? Miss Bennet? Whatever it was, they twirled their way in grace and elegance to the end of the line and paused, their turn to wait out a set of the music.
Bingley looked over his shoulder and sauntered toward Darcy. “Come, Darcy, I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose and turned aside. Why did Bingley have to make a public spectacle? “I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment for me to stand up with.'”
Bingley offered a sound that seemed half-chuckle, half-snort. “I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.'”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.” That was not entirely true. There were any number of handsome women, but all of them ordinary—the kind one might encounter anywhere. Entirely uninspiring.
“Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” He looked over his shoulder.
Air rushed from his lungs, and his eyes lost focus. He blinked furiously. Heavens above! A nymph sat against the wall regarding the dancers. Her features favored Bingley’s partner, but there was something different about her. Something remarkable. Something entirely unique that he had never seen before.
Something he had to paint. His fingers tingled, and his hands twitched.
She looked up at him and caught his eye. Blast and botheration! He had been caught staring. But her reaction was so peculiar. She did not blush or stammer or otherwise try to garner his notice or call attention to the fact he had bee
n staring. She merely smiled with a tiny nod. What ever could she mean?
He looked away and spoke just a little louder. “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” Of course, he did not mean a word of that, but what else could he have possibly said when Bingley was ready to be far more helpful than Darcy could tolerate?
Bingley rolled his eyes and drew breath for what would surely be one of his lengthy diatribes, but the first notes of the next repetition of the music drew him back to his partner and delivered Darcy from an unpleasant conversation—at least for the moment.
The young woman had turned her shoulder toward him, probably thinking she was delivering some sort of subtle cut. But he could hardly have asked for more. From this angle, he could study the intriguing line of her neck and back, the graceful craft of her ear and the barest suggestion of the silhouette of her face. His heart beat a little faster. How much longer before he could be away from this place and back to his paints?
∞∞∞
The next morning Darcy woke at dawn. The rest of the household would sleep until noon or even later after such a late night. But how could he sleep when his muse called? All night he had dreamt of laying brush to canvas; he could not wait a moment more. His heart would surely burst if he did.
He rushed through his morning toilette without his valet, who would only distract him and further complicate the muddle of his thoughts. He forced himself to think of each step lest he miss something significant as his mind struggled to leap ahead to the project he had completed in his dreams. If only he had brought his oils, but for now watercolor must do. Perhaps there was a decent colorman’s shop in Meryton.
