“Even Atlas would find holding such a book for over an hour a taxing endeavor.” Elizabeth observed.
Caroline Bingley handed Elizabeth a perfectly sharpened pencil and chastised her for stalling. “Then we should get to work. Since your skills are below mine, I shall start by demonstrating the proper technique to capture your subject’s outline.” Caroline began a squiggly line with questionable proportions to start a profile of Mr. Darcy’s forehead, nose, and lips. As Elizabeth watched Caroline’s work, she could not help spending less time inspecting Miss Bingley’s work and more time considering the sultry and handsome features of their subject matter. Caroline continued to speak about the varied steps and techniques she had learned from Masters in London and at school, but Elizabeth said little as she concentrated her efforts on producing the best Mr. Darcy she could in a two-dimensional form.
Elizabeth concentrated so deeply on the small nuances of Mr. Darcy’s face, a loud tinkling of Jane’s laughter served as the only reminder she was not alone in the room with Mr. Darcy, but in fact part of a group of five. As she considered the eyes of her canvas and gazed up for a better estimation of Mr. Darcy’s actual features, the man’s gaze met her own. If they had been able to discuss the entire ordeal of the posing and sketching, his eyes conveyed the truth of the matter had little to do with humoring Miss Bingley, but everything to do with an uninhibited excuse to stare at Miss Elizabeth.
For her part, Caroline Bingley recognized the silent tête-à-tête between her adversary and her aim, and she interjected her wishes to put a stop to it. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Darcy? Kindly cast your gaze this way. There is a veritable spark in your eye, sir, I am most anxious to capture.”
Darcy coughed and blinked profusely before turning in Caroline’s direction with a frown on his face.
Elizabeth shook herself as she realized just how desperately sentimental her feelings were becoming, all on the same day she had vowed to make sure she and Jane left this house with their hearts guarded! No longer caring about the subject or the challenge, Elizabeth held back her own laughter as she completed her portrait of Mr. Darcy with Don Quixote in the similar manner of a young child.
Deciding she was through with the painting adventure, Elizabeth put her brush down and drifted over to Mr. Bingley and Jane. The two were sitting across from one another and Jane leaned forward to match Mr. Bingley’s position in his chair. As she neared, she heard a bit of conversation that worried her.
“I have never kept a secret from . . .” Jane’s face slackened to one of indifference as she spotted Elizabeth standing ever so close to her chair.
“Mr. Bingley, your home is so lovely and well attended. When the Kemps held Netherfield, they say there were such beautiful balls and gatherings. . .” Elizabeth glanced above at the impeccably painted high ceilings and intricate moldings along the edges.
“Well, let that put a rest to it! Your sister and I were just discussing holding a ball in seven night’s time though it was to be a secret until after you returned home.” Mr. Bingley’s eyes squinted in mirth with his confession.
“Mr. Bingley,” Jane chastised as he reached forward to place a kiss on her hand. Jane craned her neck to look up at her sister, “He did not wish for Caroline to enlist our aid in planning such a fete though I did offer we would be happy to help.”
“Of course, we would . . .” Elizabeth trailed off as her eyes caught movement in the other corner of the room. Mr. Darcy was now standing and stretching from his pose and Elizabeth realized if she did not return to the canvases, then Caroline or Mr. Darcy or both would come and intrude on Jane and her beau. “Excuse me, I appear to be needed for the judging.”
“Judging?” Jane asked but with no real interest. As soon as Elizabeth walked away, she smiled and laughed again at something Mr. Bingley said and did not pursue her sister across the room.
A smug look of satisfaction filled Caroline Bingley’s face and Elizabeth remembered now how she had thrown the competition to be done with such folly. Mr. Darcy was waiting patiently on the other side of the canvases for permission to join them.
“She’s here. Now you can see for yourself the fruits of our labors and declare which painting best captures your essence, Mr. Darcy.” Caroline’s voice positively sang the sentence as Elizabeth snorted quietly and held her laughter at bay with tightly pressed lips.
Fitzwilliam Darcy’s experience in sitting for portraits stretched back to when he was a babe and repeated no less than every three years after. To sit for a simple sketch involved a far less aggravating spell though tiring all the same. He looked to Caroline’s canvas and found an undeveloped offering, completed though in all of the main areas, with his nose slightly crooked, his chin muddled, and the proportions of his shoulders much too large in comparison to his head.
“That is a very admirable piece of art, Miss Bingley. I am flattered by your use of color to contrast the book to my skin tone.”
Caroline beamed at such high praise as Mr. Darcy turned to the utter mess that was Elizabeth’s painting.
The eyes were impeccably drawn, a more accurate portrayal not possible unless he punched holes in the painting and stood behind it. The rest however, a haphazard display of lines and washes of color, was hardly the study of a serious artist. Something appeared to have happened halfway through and despite her claims to the contrary, Miss Elizabeth held a very natural talent for drawing she apparently wished to conceal.
Darcy looked behind him at the lady who drew the masterpiece of a mess to read her expression, but the woman gawked back at him, daring him to make a choice. Either he would be honest or lie, a gambit the two enjoyed throwing at one another’s feet at every turn.
“The eyes are impeccably captured, but I am afraid your fatigue shows through the rest of the painting.”
“I did grow extraordinarily tired part way through the exercise, but find myself much revived now the ordeal is over.” Elizabeth teased Mr. Darcy just the same even though the man did impress her with his willingness to be fair, but kind, regarding her painting.
“So which effort did you enjoy best? Which of us is most accomplished?” Caroline Bingley whined as she took off the apron she had been wearing to protect her clothing from the watercolors.
Darcy and Elizabeth looked at one another, briefly, stunned that Miss Bingley would act like such a child.
“I think both paintings show that only multiple sessions or a much lengthier session than I am able to provide, would offer the opportunity for a perfect likeness. While I find the one detail in Miss Elizabeth’s painting to be superb, your painting, Miss Bingley, did capture the overall subject.” When Darcy finished, Caroline looked at the two of them expectantly, and both Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet offered their hostess a mild round of applause.
Caroline preened and batted her eyelashes at Mr. Darcy for what she decided was the proclamation of herself as the winner. “I should be happy to sign the portrait and give it to you to keep, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy cleared his throat and shifted his weight between his feet. A small hand rested on his arm with a gentle, caring touch and not the vice-like grip of Miss Bingley to gain his attention.
“We both shall sign and gift our paintings to him. Offer him this souvenir of an afternoon’s folly!” Elizabeth laughed at her painting, it truly was horrendous in the styling, but a visual representation of her frustration.
As both ladies committed their names to the bottom right corners, Darcy’s face lit with an idea.
“I wonder if you two artistic ladies would join me on a short jaunt in the main halls? There is an inordinate amount of artwork hanging throughout the house and since we are stuck inside, I find the inclusion of stretching my legs to be another inducement.”
Caroline did not need to be asked twice to join Mr. Darcy on a walk, but Elizabeth hesitated. The temptation to stretch her legs seemed insurmountable as her pent-up energies from three days of rain were snarling inside of her like a caged tiger at a menagerie. But to
leave Jane and Charles? The thought appeared to translate to Mr. Darcy as he followed her gaze to the happy couple sitting by the fire.
“We could invite Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet, but do you think a walk would tax Miss Bennet’s strength?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Elizabeth nodded her head. “Today is the first day she has been out of bed the whole time, let’s not disturb them but leave the doors open.”
“But, of course,” Mr. Darcy bowed as Elizabeth walked past him towards the double doors out of the drawing room. Anticipating Miss Bingley taking his arm, Darcy bent his elbow slightly and indeed, the lady attached herself forthwith.
The halls of Netherfield Park held six generations of art carefully collected by the Kemp family. The scandalous death of Lord Kemp occurred when Jane and Elizabeth were but young children, and while the debts of Lord Kemp were long since paid, Lady Kemp, never blessed with children of her own, preferred to live in town on her meager portion. Mr. Jonathan Gilmartin, Lord Kemp’s eldest son from his first marriage, did not have a title to inherit and saw no need to leave his businesses in London to play the part of a disgraced eldest son of a once great family.
That Mr. Gilmartin, as he was now fashioned, saw Netherfield Park, the only property to survive the ancient family’s downfall, as little more than an investment property, worked in Mr. Bingley’s favor. Gilmartin’s agent, Mr. Phillips, had been instructed to take a keen interest in selling the land and house by parcel or whole lot. A fancy gentleman from London seeking to lease before purchasing seemed the perfect tenant for the property, despite it being so close to harvest when the property let.
As Caroline Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth Bennet briskly walked the halls of Netherfield to admire the many works of art, a subtle discordance brewed between the two ladies. As one viewed the artwork as her family’s future possessions, Miss Bingley’s comments were of a critical attitude as opposed to Miss Elizabeth’s perspective of respecting the heritage of her home country.
As the group came upon a heavily dated portrait of a woman in a gilded frame and boxy, Tudor styled gown, Miss Bingley sneered at the ancient likeness. “I could never imagine wearing such a frilly collar and decadent brocades. Why the weight of the fabrics alone would tax even a woman as hale as Miss Eliza.”
Elizabeth leaned closer to the painting to read the small inscribed name of the subject on a gold plate affixed to the frame: Mary Bennet Gilmartin. Elizabeth laughed.
“It would appear it is one of my ancestors to disappoint you, Miss Bingley. May I present my excessively great-aunt Mary Bennet Gilmartin, the second Lady Kemp.”
“Your family is connected to this estate? I never would have guessed.” Miss Bingley scoffed again at what she perceived to be her rival’s lowly connection.
Elizabeth sighed, taxed in biting back a sarcastic rejoinder. “My family has lived on the land here for over ten generations. It is only fitting that where the Bennets have held Longbourn since the time of Henry VIII, that the Gilmartins were similarly situated on their lands.”
“Yes, but I am to understand the Bennet name will also soon lose their seat in the county. Such a pity for the county to bear the loss of two great families in one lifetime.” Miss Bingley offered a false statement of sympathy.
As the threesome proceeded down the hall to leave Mrs. Mary Gilmartin behind, Mr. Darcy offered his opinion on the matter.
“It is unfortunate that the laws of property preserve the land at the expense of those who love and care for it.”
Elizabeth tilted her head and turned towards Mr. Darcy to see if there appeared a look of sincerity on his face to match his words. To her surprise, he was not mocking her. Still, she could not help but needle him further about his opinion that flew in defiance of her expectations. “I should think most men of your stature would celebrate the custom of entailment. The contract keeps an estate together in one piece for the continued prosperity of those who dwell on it. That the family residing in the great house should change out is of little matter to the tenants and the farmers who work from sunup to sundown for a meager existence.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken in my position, Miss Elizabeth.” The way he spoke her name with such tenderness still unnerved her. “The stewardship of an estate as large as Netherfield Park, or even of your father’s, is a significant matter for the pleasant existence of those who dwell on the land, as you put it. A tenant farmer would most enjoy a diligent master who was both fair and industrious. Few are groomed for such a role without a start at birth.”
Darcy’s words embarrassed Elizabeth, and her cheeks tinged pink. A flight of fancy in her mind wondered if Mr. Darcy was criticizing her father’s lackadaisical stewardship, but the most sensible part of her wits reminded her he was but a stranger in a strange land. While Miss Bingley might have diligently collected gossip on every major family in the area in just a few week’s time, it was not a necessity for Mr. Darcy in his daily business. Still, for the very knowledge of her father’s lack of leadership, Elizabeth felt ashamed. That a cousin of hers would inherit her family’s holdings was painful, but it was not the most illustrious parcel in the county.
Discussions of land management ceased as the three strollers came upon a petitely painted landscape that was in contrast to the monstrous portraits they had seen so far. Elizabeth gasped at the prospect captured in what appeared to be the glory of dawn’s light cascading over the verdant fields of Hertfordshire.
“It appears this artwork pleases you, Miss Elizabeth. Is it the subject or the skill of the artist that has captured your attention?” Mr. Darcy’s warm question caused Elizabeth to forget Miss Bingley had joined them on this inspection of the art at Netherfield.
A smile crept across Elizabeth’s face and the gloom and doom of the last three days of rain melted from her memory. “This view is from the top of Oakham Mount, my favorite destination for on morning jaunts. There is a stone just out of view over here,” she pointed with her hand to a place that was beyond the painting’s frame. “And it is one of my greatest pleasures to sit and take in the Lord’s bounty and beauty as it rolls over the gentle hills and fields before me. I feel quite small . . .” Elizabeth caught her breath when she realized such a personal confession had escaped her lips. “When I sit there, I enjoy the reminder that as we are here for but a short time, the rocks and hills and trees endure.” She attempted to minimize her personal attachment to the painting by inspecting the length of the hall they still needed to cover.
“I had no idea you were such a philosopher, Miss Eliza. Why you should commit your thoughts to paper when you go to your little mountain. I am sure all of London would be most eager for the musings of a gently bred lady from the countryside.” Caroline attempted another swipe at her guest, one that would fit in beautifully in the ballrooms of London, but only earned a stern look from Mr. Darcy on a royal blue carpeted hallway a few miles from a small market town.
“What I mean to say is your hillside offers a novel perspective on the world. I could see many of my friends enjoying the spectacular descriptions you might offer.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips and arched her eyebrow. She was not fooled by Miss Bingley’s haphazard revision of her words, the insult that Elizabeth might need some employment came up all too often, becoming a pattern. Just that morning, Miss Bingley had mused about the hypotheticals a young widow and unmarried daughters might find themselves facing should the patriarch pass. Charles had asked Caroline to change the subject, and the harpy from London’s fast set attempted to play it off that she had been worried for her own welfare, should anything happen to Charles as her protector.
“It is fortune enough for me to share my observations with my close friends and family. The world proper must suffer their exclusion as best as it may muster.”
Mr. Darcy coughed at the sharp, yet simple, set down Elizabeth offered to Caroline, and they were soon further on their way down the hall when Miss Elizabeth halted their progress.
“Forgive me, b
ut I am worried the hour is growing late. Ought we not turn back, see to Jane and Mr. Bingley, and begin preparations for dinner?” Elizabeth twisted her mouth back and forth in a wistful manner, happy she had found a way to stop this charade of a stroll but unhappy once again she was insulting Miss Bingley’s household management skills.
“If you are fatigued, Miss Eliza, I am certain Mr. Darcy and I may continue alone–”
“I have just remembered I was to write a very important letter to my solicitor in London. Forgive me, Miss Bingley . . .” Mr. Darcy bowed low, echoing the words used by Miss Elizabeth, “but if we could return to the drawing room, I should like to take advantage of the better lighting before the sun retires for the day.”
“Yes, yes, we must return at once. We may inspect the creative offerings of the home at another time.” Miss Bingley snaked her arm once more in Mr. Darcy’s. While the great man paused for a moment for Elizabeth to take his other arm, she remained defiantly unattached.
Watching her slippered feet peek from beneath her drab, brown hem, Elizabeth Bennet counted her steps and her breaths in an alternating pattern. She disliked how quickly her anger rose around Miss Bingley and how often she caught herself competing for Mr. Darcy’s good opinion. If only the rain would stop, she just might walk all the way home as quickly as she was able!
Five
November 19, 1811
The third morning since Jane’s recovery dawned with a welcome break in the deluge, but a dense mist extended far beyond the boundaries of Mr. Bingley’s leased estate. Elizabeth Bennet selected a gown of a creamy, ivory hue spotted with a dark plum. It was the same gown she had worn her first day at Netherfield Park. But as it was her favorite frock in both comfort and style, Elizabeth decided those features compensated for the embarrassing social hiccough of wearing the same gown twice in such a short visit.
Remembering that it was not raining, she shunned her delicate slippers for sturdier walking boots in a thrice. Donning a spencer, for she expected the air to be quite chilly, she dashed out of her room without visiting Jane to seek her freedom beyond the walls of the great house. A satisfying crunch of the gravel beneath her feet quickened her pace towards the edge of the fog when a familiar voice slowed her progress.
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