by Maria Grace
“Merely to the illustration of your character. I am trying to make it out.” Her eyebrows flashed up as her shoulders lifted.
His cheeks grew hot. “And what is your success?”
“I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” She shook her head.
“I can readily believe the report of my character may vary greatly with respect to me. I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” Was it too much to hope she would understand?
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” Perhaps it was a mercy that the dance had come to an end. It would not do for her to try to take his likeness when every artist who had tried failed.
He escorted her from the dance floor and left her in the company of Miss Bingley.
Though a relief, the parting also brought with it a poignant soul ache, nearly physical in its intensity.
No, this was not good at all. His powerful feelings toward this woman were a very bad sign, indeed. One did not feel this way toward a muse. It was sure to be more of a hinderance than a help. As were the very negative sensations he felt toward one Mr. Wickham. Perhaps, just perhaps, his muse would be satisfied now, and he could rest—somewhere well away from Hertfordshire.
∞∞∞
Bingley had business in London just after the ball, so he left the next day. Odd for him to be so close-lipped about his intentions; usually, he was quite free with such information. But perhaps that was good as it offered Darcy a ready excuse to follow him to London.
But he could not, would not, go back to that county again. That Bennet woman was difficult enough to leave behind—not to mention her sympathies for Wickham were not to be borne. He could not risk becoming caught in her orbit. If that happened, he might never leave … something he dare not risk.
Truly, it was for the best.
∞∞∞
A week after his return to London, the Hursts invited him to dine with them, Bingley, and Miss Bingley. Since he was in the midst of a project, he would ordinarily have refused the offer. But there was something not quite right about the composition, and a little time away might help his perspective, so he dressed and presented himself at Hurst’s townhouse at the requisite date and time.
The butler led him down the finely appointed corridor—the Hursts’ taste was better than one might expect, given the man’s manners—to the drawing room where Miss Bingley, and only Miss Bingley, awaited him.
The back of his neck prickled as he made certain the door was not closed behind him. He forced a calm expression though he felt like a cornered rat.
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy.” She rose from the center of the white sofa and curtsied. Her pale blue silk skirts rippled and flowed with the movement, like the calm waters of a stream running in its course.
“Miss Bingley.” He sat down, choosing the chair second most distant from her—a rather uncomfortable ivory and blue bergère that was wrong for his frame in every dimension. The legs were too short, the armrests too high. The seat cushion was too soft and the back overstuffed. In short, sitting in it was a miserable experience. But it was necessary; she was the type of woman to easily get the wrong idea, and everything about the current situation suggested she very much wanted to do just that. While she was not nearly so dreadful an option as marrying his cousin, Anne, Miss Bingley was hardly a marriageable sort.
No, that was hardly true; she was exactly the marriageable sort. And that was the problem. Miss Bingley was a woman with a large dowry and excellent accomplishments who could infuse cash into a floundering estate. That sort of exchange went on all the time, with both parties walking away satisfied: the gentleman with his estate supported, she with an entry into the gentry and all the respectability that came with it.
Exactly the sort of business arrangement he neither wanted nor needed.
“I hope you will forgive me for suggesting you arrive slightly earlier than perhaps my brothers and sister were prepared for.” She returned to her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and posed like a model sitting for a portrait.
Was that her intention? She would not be the first to try to drop hints to him. It was so difficult to tell with this woman. The backdrop of the room, neatly and elegantly decorated with just enough color to please the eye but not so much as to be jarring, felt natural enough. Perhaps she was not hinting that he should take her likeness.
“I had hoped that I might have a few private words with you before Charles comes down.” Her gaze flickered toward the doorway.
Private words? His chest tightened. “Go on.”
“I am so worried about him. I fear he might be in grave danger of making some serious mistakes.” Her brow knit just enough to show concern but not so much as to be unattractive.
Was that expression something she had learnt in school? It seemed like the sort of thing that might be taught as it was hardly natural. How many times had he needed to school a model on getting just the right balance?
“What sort of error? Is he contemplating some sort of business he has not told me about?” Bingley had been rather more secretive recently.
“Not to my knowledge, but that is hardly the sort of thing that he discusses with me.” She looked down at her hands. “There are other serious mistakes that a man like him might make.”
“Such as?”
“The business of marriage.”
“Marriage? He has said nothing to me of such a thing. I am certain he would discuss such a step with me before he took it.” He would be a fool if he did not. Bingley was in no position for society to forgive him a significant social blunder—such as marrying the wrong sort of woman.
“I have no doubt that he would—that he will when such a time comes. And to be clear, I do not believe that we are at that point—at least not yet. But it is possible that it could come far sooner than it should. In fact, I would like to keep it from coming to that point in the near future.”
He muttered under his breath and frowned. “You will have to speak more plainly. I do not pretend to understand what you are speaking of.”
“Miss Bennet of Longbourn.”
No, no! Not that name—Bennet!
“You agree with me. I can see it on your face. I am so relieved; I cannot tell you how much.”
How dare she believe she understood what he was thinking. The addlepate knew nothing! “What are you inferring?”
“You cannot believe Charles should marry Miss Bennet.”
“I did not think he was currently contemplating marriage to anyone.”
“Charles is always contemplating marriage, I am afraid. As much as women might be accused of being overly romantic, I fear Charles is just as bad or even worse.” She pressed her hand to her chest and sucked in a sorrowful breath.
Melodramatic overreaction. It was neither attractive nor effective.
“He is a sensible man.”
“He can be made to see sense, that I will concede.” She tipped her head toward him, eyes batting the slightest bit like butterflies taking their rest.
Butterflies were never so calculated.
“You seem to be hinting that you want something from me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“After a fashion, I do. I need to beg a favor of you.”
Darcy clenched his jaw. Doing favors for women, particularly women like her, was not likely to go well for him in the long run.
She leaned toward him slightly. “Pray help me to make sure that Charles stays away from Miss Bennet so there is no chance of any further attachment occurring.”
“I am not in favor of such subterfuge. Disguise is my abhorrence.”
“I do not much like it myself, but what choice is there?”
“I believe, in these matters, it is better to be direct. Explain yo
ur concerns to him—”
She sat up very straight, her eyebrows lifting high on her forehead as her tone rose to meet them. “Explain my concerns? Surely you jest! That is the surest possible way to see that he does exactly what I am certain he should not! The mere mention of it will place the idea in the forefront of his imagination, and he will hardly think about anything else until he acts upon it.”
“You do not appear to have a high estimation of your brother.” Unfortunately, though, she was right.
“You wound me. You know I think a very great deal of him. But I am also aware of his weaknesses. Think just a bit about the matter. How many times has he discovered a new ‘angel’ among an assembly or a party? You know it is very frequent. As often as he changes company, he finds a beautiful face and figure and falls enamored of her.”
Darcy rubbed his fist along his chin. She did have an excellent point.
“Who is to say that Miss Bennet is not another one of these women? You have seen how once he is out of their company, his infatuation fades, and all returns to how it had been.”
At least it had been so in every instance to date.
“Tell me, how firm an attachment could he have made to any of these girls if he forgets about them once they are out of sight?” She extended her hand, inviting him to agree.
He murmured under his breath. Another good point.
“I am quite certain that if he is attached to her, he cannot forget her, certainly not so easily as by discouraging his return to Hertfordshire. I will not be disingenuous with him.”
“I am not asking you to.” She pressed her hands into the sofa beside her. “But you cannot tell me you think Miss Bennet an excellent match for him.”
He looked aside. “She has many fine qualities. He is not in need of a dowry, and her father is a gentleman.”
“I grant you that, but her family, her connections? Can you tell me they are in any way acceptable? Her mother, her youngest sisters, they are horrid! I still shudder to think of them at the ball. The mother intimating that they were nearly engaged, and the youngest girl cavorting with the officers.”
Miss Elizabeth was not—
“Can you honestly tell me that you think those are the sort of connections that will serve Charles well?”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “I can see some difficulties.”
“Then you will assist me?”
“I am willing to support your notion that some time apart cannot be a bad thing.” And it meant that Bingley would not be pushing him to return to Hertfordshire which would be a good thing.
“Indeed, that is all I am asking … Charles, there you are! I had wondered if you were feeling unwell!” She rose and met her brother in the doorway.
It should not have been surprising that Bingley was, at least at first, reluctant to accept the helpful suggestions offered by Miss Bingley. Only when Darcy chimed in with his support did Bingley finally give way and agree to remain in London. Miss Bingley rejoiced in her triumph as did Mrs. Hurst—her husband was generally too drunk to really care either way. But Bingley—his reaction was harder to read.
At first, he seemed sanguine about the notion, but soon thereafter the melancholy began, and he became the very essence of a brown study. Perhaps, just perhaps, Darcy had been mistaken.
∞∞∞
Some weeks later, a visit to Bingley had seemed like a good idea. A reasonable one at least. What harm was there in trying to visit his friend and perhaps cheer him up just a bit? Darcy had hoped to study Bingley again and perhaps even recant his position. Returning to Netherfield might not be the evil Caroline suggested it was if leaving Hertfordshire had left Bingley in such a state.
But Darcy had been wrong—about all of it.
He dashed into his own townhouse, up the stairs, and locked the door of his chambers behind him. Panting, he pressed his back against the door—perhaps that would keep the tormenting spirits at bay.
He had seen her, Miss Bennet—the wrong Miss Bennet—waiting at the door at Grosvenor Street only to be sent away by the butler, told that Miss Bingley was not at home. Her face when she had turned aside was so composed, so serene. How could she possibly actually have any fondness for Bingley when she was so untouched by being turned away at their door?
But still, there was something about the cast of her shoulders, the turn of her lips that suggested she might be more moved than she appeared at first glance. If it had been Miss Elizabeth, he would have been certain of the meaning of her expression. With this wrong Miss Bennet, he could only guess. And her eyes…oh how they resembled Miss Elizabeth’s.
Not so much in the delicacy of that feature but in rough form and color. Almost as though she were a rough draft of what was to be perfected in her sister. Of all that was so perfectly imperfect in Miss Elizabeth.
Her face, her figure whirled though the shadows of his imagination twirling her, parading her before his mind’s eye--the nymph who lived to tease and torment him in turn.
Unfortunately, Miss Bingley was right in regard to the Bennets. While Bingley could technically afford an alliance with Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth was everything a man like himself should, must, was even required to, avoid.
He would respect his family and his station enough for that, his muse be damned. He would not tell Bingley of Miss Bennet’s visit, nor that she was even in London. And he certainly would never, never recommend a return to Netherfield Park.
Chapter 3
Why was it his muse had seemed to take the notion to be “damned” far more literally than it should have? No sooner did he return to his paints but every fragment, every thread of inspiration flew from him, as fleeting as a shadow and as easy to catch when he gave it chase.
He tried the theater, the opera, reading, riding Rotten Row, even walking in any green space he found, but all creative impulse eluded him. After a fortnight, the futility of it all set in, and he retreated back to Derbyshire. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well do it in comfortable surroundings.
∞∞∞
At first, the return to Pemberley helped. After an extended time away, accumulated estate business kept him gainfully occupied for a solid month. What a month it was! One of occupation of mind, of useful engagements and meaningful activities.
In some ways, mundane in the fullest sense of the word, but in others, truly and absolutely glorious. Every meeting with his steward, every call from a tenant with complaints proved welcome in a way it never had before. The aching, incessant weight of his muse faded away in favor of useful, practical employment.
Blissful.
And over far too soon.
By the beginning of February, his paints and brushes, his pencils and crayons—anything with which he could make a mark—began to call him again. A whisper at first, but the volume increased steadily. Only a fortnight’s resistance was permitted before he was drawn back to his attic studio to confront half-finished works and a tormenting blank canvas.
Initially, the unfinished works proved a balm, giving him a place to start, a direction to go, freeing him from those first, sometimes awful decisions that were demanded in the first moments of creation. When his muse proved temperamental, she delighted to torture him in that critical initial period. Was it wrong to delight in thwarting her efforts?
But even that reprieve was not to last. Another fortnight saw all the unfinished pieces completed—not to his satisfaction, but completed. A landscape copied from one of John Constable’s works that he had seen at the Royal Academy, the image of his favorite pointer—what had possessed him to paint that?—a still life of his mother’s favorite things—a bit too sentimental and heart-stirring to truly enjoy—and the view from the studio windows of his favorite spot in the river where he and his father often fished, so long ago now. All of those had been begun before he left Pemberley for Bingley’s company in London though, and hardly fulfilled the maddening drive now consuming him.
With no works left to finish, he confronted a bla
nk canvas. Shapes began to take form one after another, but damn it all, they were all extensions of his study of the nymph in the forest. This time, though, her face took shape. The face of Elizabeth Bennet. Every single time.
This had to stop! It simply had to stop! Such unwarranted intrusion upon his mind and art was not to be borne! How dare she? How dare she!
So, he tried to paint Caroline Bingley’s visage instead. Disaster, unmitigated disaster. She was no nymph. She was a siren, somehow confined to land—resentful of her limited existence and her fate. Her beauty, such as it was, and her song would only lead a man to his death.
That particular canvas offended his own sensibilities and his muse so much that there was little choice but to burn it, lest he never sleep another night.
Aunt Catherine’s summons for his annual Easter visit to Rosings Park came as a relief though it would not likely remain so once he arrived and the demands to marry Anne began anew. Still, it was better than pacing his studio whilst his muse continued to torment him.
∞∞∞
The journey to Kent proved nothing like the ride to Hertfordshire. Nothing. And yet, the promise of a journey was all it took to send his muse thrumming, awakening every nerve with agonizing precision.
It was not possible, but still his ears ached for Miss Elizabeth’s musical voice; his eyes sought her in every shadow, every flash of sunlight. He longed for the scent of her—what sort of flower was it that she wore? All hunger, yet knowing no satisfaction awaited him at the end of this journey. That should have been enough to quell the longing, but no, somehow it only increased the anticipation. It only served to make the disappointment when he saw Anne all the more acute.
Realistically, he should look forward to that. The sight of Anne was enough to chill his muse into silence. Usually. But not this time.
But why?
Why could he not cease to hear Miss Elizabeth’s voice on the wind, see her face in fleeting shimmers of light? Why had he come here at all? Dreadful fool he was to think he could flee the relentless cur nipping at the heels of his soul.
