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Chapter Text

Prompt: If walls could talk

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH

Elizabeth's trip to Hunsford was cut short because Jane had met Mr. Bingley in London, quite by accident, and when they got engaged a couple of days later Mrs. Bennet demanded Elizabeth's urgent return so she could help with the wedding preparations. So many things could go wrong!

But no disaster prevented the wedding, and after Jane and Bingley had left on their honeymoon, Elizabeth travelled to Derbyshire with the Gardiners.

It is not the object of this work to double as a travel guide so we shall skip the descriptions of the fine houses and vistas they saw on their way, as we are concerned with just one particular house at this time.

Mrs. Gardiner was eager to see Pemberley, which was but five miles from Lambton. Elizabeth had to own that she was somewhat tired of great houses as one expensive carpet was usually much like another, and all the portraits on the walls tended to look like people with two eyes and a nose in the middle.

Mr. Gardiner said he had been told there was a fine painting by Gainsborough that they would surely admire. Mrs. Gardiner said that the grounds and gardens were well worth seeing.

Seeing her uncle and aunt very much wished to go, Elizabeth could have no objection. ”It would be a little awkward to bump into Mr. Darcy without an invitation, but the people at the inn were saying he is not in residence at this time.”

”If his house is open to random tourists,” Mrs. Gardiner said, ”I am sure he could not object to the family of his good friend visiting. I understand that Mr. Bingley holds him in high esteem.”

”He does,” Elizabeth agreed. ”But Jane says Charles has not seen him since spring. I am not sure but I think they may have quarrelled about something.”

”Even if they have, it could have nothing to do with you,” Mrs. Gardiner said practically.

To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

The housekeeper was a respectable, elderly woman who was very civil, and not as formal as Elizabeth had expected.

”Have you been here before, Miss?” Mrs. Reynolds said.

”No, it is my first time in Derbyshire,” Elizabeth said.

”I am from Lambton and I visited the Pemberley gardens as a child,” Mrs. Gardiner said. ”But Lizzy has never had the pleasure.”

”Oh, I thought the young miss looked familiar, that is all.” Mrs. Reynolds said.

”Perhaps she resembles someone you know,” Mr. Gardiner said.

”Perhaps,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”Maybe it will come to me later.”

She eyed Elizabeth appraisingly. ”Do you know Mr. Darcy?” she asked.

”We are slightly acquainted,” Elizabeth said. ”But I would not say I know him well.”

”And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?”

“Yes, very handsome.”

“I am sure I know none so handsome,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”And of a steadiness of purpose and plenty of good character, moreover. I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”

Elizabeth was a bit surprised to hear Mr. Darcy thus described, for he had definitely not struck her as affable during their brief acquaintance, but she supposed one must give faithful retainers some leave to be biased about their employers. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds received a very generous salary. And after all, Mr. Wickham had said that Mr. Darcy was well able to please whenever he chose to bother. Likely he found it expedient to bother when he was at home.

”It is very much to his credit that you can give such a good account of him,” she said aloud.

”Ask anyone who knows him, and you must get the same account,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “He is the best landlord, and the best master, and any of his tenants or servants would give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”

”Indeed,” Elizabeth said faintly. ”Whatever Mr. Darcy may be, he is certainly not a rattle.”

”Have you often been in company with him?”

”No, not often.”

”Are you sure you have not been here previously? Or at Darcy House in London? Because I am certain that I have seen you before.”

”No, you must have seen someone who looks like me. I do not even know where Mr. Darcy's London house is.”

Mrs. Reynolds said nothing, and Elizabeth began to feel a little uncomfortable under her stare.

”I met Mr. Darcy last year in Hertfordshire, where he briefly stayed with his friend Mr. Bingley who had leased a house in the neighbourhood. Later, in the spring, I saw Mr. Darcy in Kent, usually at church. My cousin is the rector in his aunt's parish, and Mr. Darcy faithfully attended all the services.”

”Ah, yes, as he would,” Mrs. Reynolds said. But there was still a vaguely sceptical air about her.

”Mr. Bingley is now my brother-in-law, but Mr. Darcy was not present at the wedding,” Elizabeth felt compelled to explain herself further.

”I see,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”Yes, we know Mr. Bingley quite well in these parts.”

”My niece is very happy to have met him,” Mr. Gardiner said.

”I wish them both great joy,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”And what do you think about Mr. Darcy, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth was a bit uncomfortable at the attention. To what were these questions tending? Did the housekeeper interrogate all the guests like this? Would she report her findings to Mr. Darcy?

Elizabeth had a fanciful notion that Mrs. Reynolds must have some sort of a theory that she was testing. But Elizabeth did not know what the right answers to her questions would be, so she opted for the truth.

”Mr. Darcy is rather reserved in company so I cannot say I know him well. But Mr. Bingley says Mr. Darcy has been a great friend for many years and gave him very valuable advice about his estate.”

”Certainly,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”Mr. Darcy is very conscientious about Pemberley and the welfare of everyone connected to it, and the tenants are all the better for his attentions.”

”Is your master in residence?” Mr. Gardiner asked, and Elizabeth was glad that the housekeeper's focus shifted to the others.

Mrs. Reynolds said Mr. Darcy had been present through much of the summer due to some estate concerns. But at the moment he was visiting his uncle.

Her aunt wondered about some miniatures over the mantel-piece. The housekeeper told them the miniatures depicted her master, his sister, and a young man who had been her late master's godson.

”No, these portraits are just one woman and one man,” Mr. Gardiner said.

The housekeeper approached, and exclaimed in surprise. ”Mr. Wickham's portrait has been here since my late master's time but apparently it is missing now.”

She did not believe the painting to have great monetary value but nevertheless she was initially worried that the painting had been stolen. ”Some people walk away with the oddest trinkets.”

But there was a footman on duty in the hall who was able to reassure her. ”The master removed it himself. The butler asked him about it and he said that despite his father's devotion, the subject was not of a sufficient moral value to merit a pride of place on the walls of Pemberley. It is now in the footmens' quarters, on the wall with the pictures of people who are never to be admitted in this house. He sent a copy of the portrait to the London house as well.”

”Good heavens, what did Mr. Wickham do?” exclaimed Mr. Gardiner. ”He seemed like such a polite young man.”

”I could not presume to guess,” Mrs. Reynolds said, ”but generally his troubles tend to involve women, money, or both. Do you know him?”

”Slightly,” said Mr. Gardiner. ”His militia regiment was stationed near my niece's home, so I have seen him once or twice. He told us of growing up here.”

”Oh, yes, he would do that, wouldn't he! He always believed that it gave him a sheen of respectability,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”Well, I hope the militia keeps him away from mischief. My late master was very fond of him, however little he might have deserved it.”

If her gaze had been appraising before, now she seemed downright suspicious. Apparently admitting to an acquaintance with Mr. Wickham was not considered a sign of good character in this household. Whatever could the lieutenant have done to get himself banned from Pemberley?

”He was lately engaged to a girl in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth said. ”But I think her family put a stop to it.”

Elizabeth had been hoping to keep Mrs. Reynolds talking about Mr. Wickham, and shed some further light on his character. Mr. Wickham had explained that his quarrel with Mr. Darcy was about an inheritance. But it seemed to Elizabeth that it could not be all that there was about it, and it seemed more and more likely that Mr. Wickham had left out some details that would have put him in bad light.

But all the housekeeper said was, ”Good for her.”

Then they toured more rooms. Elizabeth was too occupied with her thoughts to pay proper attention to the curtains and carpets, but she saw enough to conclude that Pemberley had been decorated in obvious good taste and quality, although some things were rather old-fashioned by now.

”Mr. Darcy has not changed much in this house, and many of the rooms are still as they were in his parents' time,” Mrs. Reynolds explained.

”Perhaps his sister can help him,” Mrs. Gardiner said. ”If she inherited the same good eye she could update the style yet keep the ambience equally pleasant in all the essentials.”

”Miss Darcy has great taste,” Mrs. Reynolds allowed. ”But she is rather sentimental of the memories, and would prefer to keep to her mother's choices for as long as they are serviceable.”

”It must be very difficult for such a young girl to lose both of her parents,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

”Indeed,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”My master and his cousin are doing a good job as her guardians, and she has aunts who are interested in her welfare. But obviously it is not the same as having a mother's advice, love and support.”

”Does Mr. Darcy plan to marry soon?” Mr. Gardiner said. ”Miss Darcy might have the support of a sister then.”

”Perhaps so but we know of no wedding plans.”

”But Mrs. Reynolds, do you not remember?” A maid had come in, apparently intent on dusting something, but she had paused when seeing the visitors. ”The master had new wallpapers put in the mistress's chambers recently, so it is quite likely he will marry as soon as not.”

”Yes, well,” Mrs. Reynolds said repressively. ”Thank you, Molly. If he has plans he will announce them in his own good time, I am sure.”

Although Mrs. Reynolds was quite talkative herself, apparently gossiping about their employers was not encouraged among the lower ranks of servants.

The maid seemed a little embarrassed, for having revealed something that Mrs. Reynolds did not want revealed. She curtsied and was about to leave the room. But she had to walk past Elizabeth to do so, and when she took a good look at her, she stopped, startled. ”Oh, Miss...” she said, and stared at her.

Then she went back to whisper something very quietly in Mrs. Reynolds's ear. Mrs. Reynolds exclaimed something unintelligible, turned sharply, and stared at Elizabeth once more.

Elizabeth was beginning to feel an intense discomfort at the scrutiny and odd reactions of these strangers. Maybe it had been a mistake to come to Pemberley.

”Thank you so much for showing us the house,” she said. ”Is it not time for us to leave soon, Uncle?”

Her uncle had noticed something peculiar in the air too and was willing to comply. ”Yes, we are expected to dine with friends in Lambton, and we have to stop at the inn before we go.”

”No, you cannot leave yet!” Mrs. Reynolds suddenly said, very emphatically. Everyone, including Mrs. Reynolds herself, was surprised and taken aback at her sudden vehemence, and she attempted to smooth things out. ”You could not claim to have seen Pemberley if you have not seen the portrait gallery. I do believe we get many visitors who come here specifically for the paintings. There is a very fine piece by Gainsborough, and you would be sorry to miss it.”

”I suppose we can take the time to see a Gainsborough,” Mr. Gardiner relented graciously. ”Supposing it is as fine as you say, everyone will understand if we are a bit late, admiring it.”

But before they could get to the Gainsborough Mrs. Reynolds made them look at more portraits of the current Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy and a large array of Darcy ancestors.

There seemed to be a certain forbidding look about the Darcy males, and next to some of his forebears, Mr. Darcy's stern, serious expression softened in comparison.

Elizabeth recognized a portrait of Colonel Fitzwilliam in his regimentals, and an older man who had to be his father, the earl.

A part of the room was devoted to the art of Miss Darcy. She had painted landscapes in oils and watercolours, and drawn portraits of people in crayons, including a lovely sketch of her brother with a lingering smile on his face. Elizabeth had not often seen him smiling so, but somehow the expression seemed familiar to her, and the man in the drawing seemed to be looking straight into her.

”Who is that?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. ”I think I have found your doppelganger, Lizzy.”

”Oh, this one is new!” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”It must be the one Molly...”

She cut herself off in the middle of a sentence.

Indeed, one of Miss Darcy's drawings looked a lot like Elizabeth, walking with another woman who was merely an outline.

”It is quite uncanny,” she said. ”I must have a long lost twin somewhere.”

”Are you sure it is not you, Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

”It is not,” Elizabeth said firmly. ”How could Miss Darcy have sketched me when I have never met her?”

But silently she thought that the picture looked a lot like the scene at Netherfield, when Miss Bingley wanted to walk around the room. Had Mr. Darcy been writing a letter? Or sketching?

Elizabeth peered at the pictures closer. Most of Miss Darcy's sketches had her initials in the corner, but the one that looked like her was unsigned.

”Where is the Gainsborough?” she asked, pretending nonchalance she did not feel. She had to get out of this house soon.

”It is in the far end of the gallery,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

But on the way they had to pass more paintings. They were women of varying ages. Some of them looked content, even happy, others had a rather imperious air.

”I assume that these are the former mistresses of Pemberley,” Mrs. Gardiner inquired.

”Yes,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”And some other ladies who belonged here.”

Among the portraits, there was one that caught Elizabeth's eye.

It was a watercolour, smaller than the others, unsigned. But she stood transfixed in front of it for a long while.

It was the likeness of a young woman dressed in modern fashions, standing on the steps in front of Pemberley, admiring the gardens. Her face was not visible, but indeed, for all the world she looked like she belonged there.

Everyone else gathered around the painting, and stared.

”Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said finally. ”Why is there a picture of you here?”

”It is not a picture of me,” she attempted to convince herself.

But it must be. She recognized the bonnet and the clothing in the painting as the ones she had worn to church at Rosings.

And she was wearing the same outfit now.

Chapter Text

Prompt: When I was your age

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 2

If Elizabeth was shaken to find her own likeness in the gallery at Pemberley, Mr. Gardiner was even more perturbed. He wanted the two pictures taken down and burned immediately, but Mrs. Reynolds refused to do so without her master's permission.

Mrs. Gardiner was also concerned. ”I have so many questions right now I do not know where to start.”

Mrs. Reynolds suggested starting with refreshments. ”Perhaps things will seem clearer after a good cup of tea.”

Mrs. Gardiner was doubtful. ”Perhaps.”

”But if not, at least you have had good cup of tea and excellent scones besides.”

Mr. Gardiner was not in the mood for scones, or for the housekeeper's company. ”Elizabeth, I need a word. In private.”

Mrs. Reynolds offered a parlour for their use but he refused that too.

”Frankly, Mrs. Reynolds, I would prefer not to have this conversation in this house.”

”I suggest you take the path to the lake,” Mrs. Reynolds said. ”You should have enough privacy to ensure nothing is overheard, and you will be able to see if anyone approaches.”

He thanked Mrs. Reynolds and half-walked, half-dragged Elizabeth outside, not saying a word until they were well outside anyone's hearing range.

”Do you have an understanding with that man?”

”No, certainly not,” Elizabeth said.

”Have you had a flirtation that might have led him to suppose an understanding might be forthcoming?”

”No, I do not think so.”

”You do not think?”

”Well, I certainly did not think any such thing. It did not even occur to me as a possibility, because nothing happened between us.”

”Maybe you should describe the entirety of the nothing that happened to me, in more detail. Because those paintings did not seem like nothing to me.”

”The first time I saw him was at the Meryton assembly last autumn. Mr. Bingley wanted Mr. Darcy to partner me in a dance but he refused to be introduced to me, rather rudely.”

”Rudely?”

”He said he hated the pastime and did not wish to dance and that there was not one pretty girl in the room, besides Jane. Then Mr. Bingley pointed me out to him and he said I looked tolerable but as I was obviously being slighted by other men there must be something wrong with me.”

”In those words?”

”I do not remember the exact phrasing, but I heard his tone clearly, and understood that he was not at all attracted to me.”

”If a man paints pictures of you and puts them on his wall it would seem to indicate differently.”

Elizabeth was quiet for a while. ”In truth, it casts a very strange shade on everything. But I am being honest that I never thought of him as a suitor and he never acted like one.”

”When did you meet him next?”

”We were thrown together in various events in Meryton. Sometimes I thought he was watching me or listening to my conversations, with other people, but he never said much so I did not imagine it to be a sign of anything but boredom.”

”But you spoke sometimes?”

”Yes, a few times, mostly when Jane got sick in Netherfield Park, and I stayed with her. Mr. Darcy and I met at meals, but Miss Bingley always had him seated next to her and far from me so there was little opportunity to speak then. During the evening entertainments he spoke a little more, but usually to the group and not to me in particular, and what he said I often took as criticism. Once we were in the library together for half-an-hour and he said not a word. So pardon me if I did not immediately jump to any assumptions about his regard.”

”Think harder, there must be something that gives you a better clue,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”I did not get the impression that Mr. Darcy is mad, but a sane man must have some reason for the things he does. He does not just get up and nail a picture of a random woman on the wall amongst the mistresses of his house, for everyone to see, for no reason.”

”Maybe there is a hole in the wall that he wanted to cover.”

Elizabeth's jest fell flat, and she shrugged helplessly, wringing her hands. ”That man is a little more than a stranger to me – why am I expected to be able to explain his motivations?”

”The paintings were unfinished. He did not put them up for the artistic value,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”He has a Gainsborough, for goodness' sake.”

”Alas, this outing was a huge waste of time,” Elizabeth said sadly. ”We came to admire the Gainsborough and never got that far.”

”Never mind the Gainsborough!” Mr. Gardiner stopped walking. ”He did paint those pictures himself, did he?”

”I have no idea. I suppose he must have. I did not pose for him, or for anybody else, if that is what you are asking,”

”I was not but that is good to know.”

”I do not think Miss Darcy has ever seen me so it could not have been her work unless Mr. Darcy gave her a very good description. His two cousins saw me wearing these clothes in Hunsford but I did not get the impression that either of them was of an artistic bent.”

She shrugged. ”Then again, I did not get that impression of Mr. Darcy either, so I might not be a good judge of the matter.”

”What about the clothing in the other one? The one with the two women? Who saw you wearing that?”

”It is an old gown so anyone in Meryton could have seen it. But I think Mr. Darcy saw it in Netherfield Park.”

”Do you know who the other woman is? Or what that place is?”

”If I had to guess, I would say Miss Bingley, in the drawing room at Netherfield Park. She asked me to walk around the room with her once, but Mr. Darcy declined to join us.”

”What did he say?”

”That he could admire our figures better from where he was sitting.”

”Oh Lizzy!” Mr. Gardiner sighed. ”And you did not think he was flirting with you?”

”Well, I thought he must be flirting with Miss Bingley, if anyone. She was very eager for his attentions.”

”And did he seem to return the feeling?”

”No, I should say not. She kept asking questions about the letters he was writing or the books he was reading, and sometimes he seemed rather annoyed, and responded very curtly.”

”So, maybe he liked you because you were in a library together for half-an-hour and you let him read in peace.”

Elizabeth let out a strangled laugh. ”That is it, exactly, Mr. Darcy likes me because I am so quiet and taciturn.”

”What do you think he likes you for?”

”For the time being, I still do not know for sure that he likes me at all.”

Mr. Gardiner humphed. ”Elizabeth.”

”Uncle?”

”He put your picture on his wall next to a Gainsborough because he does not like you?” Mr. Gardiner was exasperated. ”Sure, you must be right. He painted your picture and displayed it in a room with precious artworks because he dislikes you so strongly.”

”I used to think he looked at me because he kept finding faults.”

”You did not pose for him, yet he painted you in two dresses that were easily recognized. Do you not think he might have been looking because he was committing you to memory?”

”Oh.” Elizabeth had not thought about that but it made sense. ”But I am nothing like his ideal woman.”

”How do you know?"

”Once, at Netherfield, Miss Bingley listed the requirements to be a truly accomplished woman, and the implication was that I had none of them.”

”What did he say to that?”

”He said Miss Bingley's list had merit but he had one more requirement to add.”

”What was it?”

”That a woman should broaden her mind by extensive reading.”

”And what were you doing at the time?”

”Reading a book.”

”Oh, Elizabeth.” Mr. Gardiner sighed. ”You really are oblivious, are you not? That first day, you had decided that man was not attracted to you, and there was absolutely nothing he could do or say thereafter to convince you otherwise.”

Elizabeth was greatly struck by that thought, and spent some time replaying all the looks, all the conversations, all the expressions she remembered, trying to figure out if she had got it all wrong.

”Did he ever ask you to dance?”

”Yes, at Mr. Bingley's ball, and a couple of times before that he almost asked, but I did not take him seriously then.”

”Why not?”

”Once it was at the behest of Sir William Lucas. The other time was in the drawing room at Netherfield Park. No one was dancing but he asked me if I did not want to dance a reel, and I said I did not.”

”So there was some ambiguity,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”But I dare say if he did not wish to dance with you he would not have taken the risk that you'd say yes. If no one was dancing it was not at all the expectation that he ask you.”

”I thought he just asked to mock me.”

”Oh, merciful heavens!” Mr. Gardiner put his hands up in despair. ”Yes, when I was your age young men often asked pretty young ladies to dance just to mock them. It was by far the most common reason. In fact, I asked your aunt to marry me just so I could laugh at her morning hair.”

”He had told Mr. Bingley he was not tempted to dance with me, so why would I assume he suddenly was?”

”Did he dance with others?”

”At the ball, he danced with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. I did not see him asking anyone else.”

”He danced with his host's sisters,” said Mr. Gardiner. ”And you.”

”And me.”

”So he hates dancing, and dislikes you, yet he asked you to dance, even if your looks are only tolerable.”

”It does sound ridiculous when you put it like that.”

”Did he ever touch you when you were not dancing?”

”No.” Elizabeth shook her head. ”No, he handed me in the carriage once but I cannot remember anything more.”

”There were no kisses, embraces or other indiscretions that he committed only because he does not find you at all tempting?”

”Uncle!” Elizabeth exclaimed, dismayed. ”Of course not!”

”I had to check because anything could slip by you,” Mr. Gardiner said.

”I think it is a little unfair to expect me to be able to read that man's mind.”

”No one needs you to read minds,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”But you could afford to pay a little more attention.”

”Perhaps.”

”He made you no offers or declarations that you immediately disregarded because you did not think he would ever stoop so low?”

”I think I would know if someone had made me an offer!”

”So you say.”

”Has he hinted at making you a dishonourable offer?”

”To the best of my knowledge, he has hinted at nothing at all.”

”So what happened at the ball? You danced, and then?”

”Then nothing. We had some words, and he left Meryton after the ball.

”You had words, and he left. A lover's quarrel?”

”It was not a lover's quarrel to me. We were talking about Mr. Wickham.”

”The same Mr. Wickham who got banned from Pemberley?”

”Yes. Mr. Wickham had told me how Mr. Darcy mistreated him, and I confronted Mr. Darcy about it.”

”What did he say?”

”That Mr. Wickham was good at making friends but less proficient in keeping them.”

”Do you not think that Mr. Wickham might have left out some salient points in his narrative?”

”It seems obvious now,” Elizabeth admitted. ”In that, at least, I was very blind.”

”So Mr. Darcy asked you to dance, either because he likes you, or because he dislikes you, and you spent the dance defending his nemesis to him, so he left.”

”I do not know that he left for that reason.”

”Granted,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”We have no information. Maybe his favourite heifer died, and he had to go to the funeral. What happened then?”

”Nothing, I have not seen him since, except in Hunsford, and that was a complete coincidence. I did not know he would be there.”

”Did he know you would be there?”

”I do not know. I suppose he could have found out for I am sure Mr. Collins seeks Lady Catherine's blessings before he dares to sneeze in the cabbage yard, let alone invite guests in her precious domain.”

”And what happened in Hunsford?”

”Mr. Darcy came to the parsonage once, to introduce his cousin the colonel to us, and the colonel spoke more than Mr. Darcy. Then I saw Mr. Darcy at church a couple of times. He greeted us, and escorted his cousin Miss De Bourgh to the carriage. We did not speak for two minutes complete.”

”Yet he could replicate what you were wearing.”

”It is a mystery to me.”

”It is plain as day by now that the man must be obsessed with you,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”But there is some mystery about his intentions.”

”Oh, I am sure that he has no intentions.”

”You were sure that the most remarkable painting in his gallery was the Gainsborough, yet here we are.”

Mr. Gardiner was quiet for a while. Then he said, ”If he wants you as the mistress of Pemberley, what will you do?”

”I do not know him at all.”

”Yes, you do. You have been in company with him and his relations, and you know Mr. Bingley who knows him well. What do you know about Mr. Darcy?”

”I think he is quite fond of his sister. Both his parents are dead. His maternal uncle is an earl and he appears to be close to one cousin who is a colonel. His aunt and another cousin live in Kent. I know nothing about his paternal relations except what we learned from Mrs. Reynolds at the portrait gallery.”

”That is family. What about his position in society?”

”Well, according to Miss Bingley, he is well established in London society although he seems to take little pleasure in it. He has this estate, a house in London, and the rumour in Meryton was that he has ten thousand a year.”

”This house might not be horrible to live in,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”There could be some advantages to being the mistress of Pemberley.”

”Yes, materially at least.”

”What can you tell me about the man's character?”

”I wonder how much I know and how much I merely imagined.”

”Well, what are other people saying?”

”That he writes long letters.”

”What else?”

”He is irritable on Sunday nights when he has nothing to do.”

”So he is industrious. What else?”

”Mr. Bingley, Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Catherine all think he is an excellent estate owner, and Bingley has certainly benefited from Mr. Darcy's advice. Even Mr. Wickham allowed that he takes pride in doing the right thing, taking care of his tenants, and being hospitable, generous and charitable.”

”Mr. Wickham does not seem to be shy with his slander so if even he had to admit Mr. Darcy has these good qualities, can we take them for a given? If he could not disparage Mr. Darcy in this respect it must be because it would be too absurd and he would soon be proven a liar.”

”Perhaps.”

”So where are we? What do we know about the disadvantages of his character?”

”He is rude at assemblies.”

”Noted. He was rude to you at least once.”

”To me and others. I do not think he cared whether he appeared rude or not, when there were a lot of strangers.”

”Would he be rude at breakfast table, eating with people he knows?”

”I do not know,” Elizabeth said.

”Was he rude when you dined with him?”

”Not particularly, no.” Elizabeth was deep in thought. ”At Netherfield we had breakfast together twice.”

”And?”

”He asked me if I wanted more toast, and watched me eat. The second day he knew without asking how I liked my tea.”

”So he pays attention.”

”I suppose.”

”So where do we stand? We have a wealthy, generous man, who can be curt with strangers but shows some signs of being besotted with you. I do believe you could have a good life with him, if you both chose each other.”

”Uncle!”

”Yet he is not at Longbourn, talking to your father.”

”Now you see why this is all madness. Even if he wanted to, he is not going to marry a penniless girl from the country. He is expected to marry his cousin and to unite two great estates, and whatever feelings he may have imagined to have for me he must have long since conquered by now.”

”But why are there still two pictures of you on his walls?”

”I think only he knows.”

”Yes, undoubtedly so,” Mr. Gardiner said. ”I must see this fellow, and if his intentions are not honourable, you let me deal with him. At the very least we need those portraits taken down and preferably destroyed.”

”Destroyed?” Elizabeth was suddenly dismayed at the thought of destroying something that had been born out of some affection.

”Unless you are engaged you do not want to explain to anyone why a bachelor from Derbyshire keeps painting you.”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH, PART 3

Mrs. Gardiner had spent her time usefully questioning Mrs. Reynolds about Mr. Darcy's habits. “She says his mother used to be very artistic, and as a child Mr. Darcy was often seen with crayons.”

“Lady Catherine would approve,” Elizabeth said. “She values diligent practice.”

“According to Mrs. Reynolds Mr. Darcy is diligent about most things, a very thoughtful master. She says he can be brusque but never unkind. He does not make many friends but would do anything for the ones he loves.”

“She sounds half in love with him,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I would say her feelings are very nearly maternal pride. She would not admit it but I think she has unofficially taken a rather large part in raising him after his mother died.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Well, it is good if he has someone on his side.”

“She says he was never one for the petticoat line and the marriage market seemed an imposition to him. So she had begun to despair that there might never be a mistress of Pemberley.”

“The house seems to run just fine without one,” Elizabeth said.

“Apart from strange art appearing on the walls,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“Yes but you recall that maid mentioned Mr. Darcy requested new wallpapers for Lady Anne’s old rooms. Mrs. Reynolds told me that he sent letters to both of his housekeepers, with sketches of some changes that he wished done for the mistress’s chambers.”

“It is his house,” Elizabeth said. “The poor man ought to be able to redecorate if he so wishes.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “But my point is, he did this last autumn, after he had met you in Hertfordshire.”

“But did he ever ask you to marry him? Did he speak to your father and request a courtship?” Mr. Gardiner said. “If, in the end, he decided to do nothing to make it official, new wallpapers that few people ever get to see can mean very little.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Well, if he does not mean to marry me and I do not mean to marry him, everything has worked out as it should and we both get our wish. Can we leave now?”

“I suppose we are done here,” Mr. Gardiner said. “But I am not done with Mr. Darcy.”

Mr. Gardiner asked the butler for writing supplies so he could leave a note with his direction. “Pray tell your master that he needs to attend me at his earliest convenience.”

“I am sure he will,” said the butler, eyeing the party with curiosity. Either he recognised Elizabeth too, or Mrs. Reynolds had informed him of what had happened.

The butler was more prophetic than he realized, for they did not have time to enter their carriage before being waylaid by Mr. Darcy in front of the house.

“Miss Elizabeth!” He was startled to see her.

Elizabeth made quick introductions and Mr. Darcy asked them if they had been inside.

“Mrs. Reynolds kindly gave us a tour,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “And we have seen some interesting portraits.”

“Oh, you went to the gallery?”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Some art is quite ruined by explanations but I think I am owed some clarification as to why your painting collection includes two pictures that Elizabeth, my wife, two of your servants and I clearly identified as my niece, and I expect you to destroy them forthwith.”

“Of course, if that is your wish.” Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth.

“I did not say that,” Elizabeth said. “But I must admit that I am very confused.”

“Miss Elizabeth, I am extremely sorry if it caused you embarrassment or distress. I meant to remove them before the Bingleys or Colonel Fitzwilliam visited and I did not think that there was any danger that anyone else would be able to recognize you this far from home.”

“A hundred and forty miles of good road,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I purposefully chose pictures in which the face was somewhat obscured, and if anyone asked, Georgiana was to claim the subject of the portraits was a friend of hers.”

“Teaching your sister to lie for you? For shame, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said.

“It was not ideal but I told her that if she said that she had painted a friend of hers it would be true enough, and if people mistakenly assumed that these paintings were one and the same it would be on them, not on her conscience.”

“Very artful of you, I did not expect it of you.”

“Thank you, I live to surprise you.”

“That you certainly have,” Elizabeth said.

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Gardiner. “You said that you chose pictures with the face obscured. Do you mean to say that you have more portraits of Elizabeth to choose from?”

Mr. Darcy seemed a little embarrassed to have revealed so much but he had little choice. “Well, as a matter of fact, yes.”

“All right, sir. I am sure there is a reasonable explanation and I am waiting to hear it,” Mr. Gardiner said, sounding like he was not at all sure that there was a reasonable explanation that could be heard.

“It is simply that I was hoping the visualisation would help me figure things out and achieve a happy outcome.”

“How would these pictures help you achieve anything? Is there a hex on them or something?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Do you mean some sort of voodoo? I do not throw darts at Miss Elizabeth’s pictures in order to cause her pain if that is what you are worried about.”

“I may need your portrait for just that purpose if your shenanigans hurt Elizabeth or force her hand in any way,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

“If you come back inside the house with me I can give you one,” Mr. Darcy said. “But I swear that I had no nefarious purpose, and in truth the outcome would only be truly happy if she too found her happiness in it.”

“Enough with the cryptic statements,” Mr. Gardiner said. “I just need an answer to two questions. First, what is the purpose of the portraits?”

“The portraits were to help me make a decision,” Mr. Darcy said. “I think better with visual aids.”

“And have you made a decision?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“My second question is, are you a honourable man?” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I hope to be, at any rate,” Mr. Darcy said.

“I have more questions,” said Elizabeth. “Many more than those two.”

“And I would be happy to answer any of them for you,” Mr. Darcy said. “Preferably in private.”

Mr. Gardiner was unwilling to grant Mr. Darcy a permission for any unsupervised confrontation but after Mr. Darcy assured him that all of his intentions were entirely honourable he consented to allowing them to speak at one end of the picture gallery if the Gardiners sat at the other end where they would be able to see but not hear if the couple spoke softly.

“If my wife and I get the far end with the Gainsborough,” Mr. Gardiner said. “I came here expressly to see it but I have yet to admire it.”

Mr. Darcy found no fault with this plan, and soon he was looking at Elizabeth earnestly. “I know this must look very odd to you.”

“Let us go with unexpected,” Elizabeth said. “It does seem somewhat out of character for the Mr. Darcy I thought I knew.”

“If you knew me a little better you might think it was just like me,” he said. “The thing is, I am not very good at putting my emotions into words, and sometimes I need to see which colours I used to paint things with before I can tell how I feel about them. Sometimes I do not know what I think about people before I have sketched them and see how it turns out. And often I cannot figure out what is going on in a social situation until I caption the picture I drew about it.”

“Often?”

“I suppose that is a matter of opinion,” he said. “But I have filled four and fifty sketchbooks.”

“So you sketched me in order to figure out how you feel about me?”

“I did that earlier,” he said. “These paintings were meant more to help me to decide what to do about those feelings.”

“What were your options?”

“To go back to Hertfordshire to try and court you,” he said. “Or not.”

“I do not understand how these portraits could help in that.”

“I wanted to put your pictures amongst pictures of my family and the mistresses of Pemberley to find out how it would feel like.”

“You were wondering how it would be to have me in that position?”

“Yes.”

He did not go on, so eventually she was forced to ask.

“How was it then?”

“I thought you belonged there,” he said. “When Mr. Gardiner demanded that the pictures be taken down and destroyed, it felt very wrong.”

“I still do not understand;” she said. “Why are you thinking these thoughts now? It has been several months since we met and I have seen nothing of you.”

“In Hertfordshire I had convinced myself that you did not feel the same way about me, and I would be better off forgetting you. But when I saw you at Rosings I still had not forgotten a single thing about you, and after Bingley’s engagement and marriage I knew I would be reminded of you periodically for as long as Bingley and I remained friends.”

“He would certainly wish to keep you as his friend,” Elizabeth said.

“And I him,” Mr. Darcy said. “So while we have not met often you have not been far from my thoughts.”

“I see,” Elizabeth fell quiet.

He was content to watch her, and let her think in silence for as long as she wanted to.

“Are you mentally sketching me now?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “This is the first time that I have seen you at Pemberley. I want to remember how that feels.”

“Go on then,” Elizabeth said. “Do you want to get your sketchbook?”

Mr. Darcy was startled but happy to hear that request, and he ran off, quite forgetting his dignity. He came back with a thick book and a pencil and sat down to do a quick sketch of her.

“Please note that for once I am consenting to being sketched.”

“I appreciate it.”

In just a few lines, he had captured the shape of her face, the line of her jaw, the curl in her hair.

“Oh, you made me so beautiful,” Elizabeth breathed, in awe.

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Nature made you so beautiful.”

“That is really how you see me?”

“That is how you are,” he said, emphasis on the last word.

“Well, I have come a long way from tolerable then.”

“I must beg for your forgiveness,” Mr. Darcy said. “I said many untruths that evening.”

“Granted,” she said. “Are you asking for anything else?”

“Anything else?”

“You have told me of your deliberations but I am not yet aware whether there is something that I should have to decide upon.”

“Is there any chance you might say yes at this time?”

“Say yes to what?”

“Will you marry me? Failing that, would you allow me to court you?”

“Now that was not so difficult, was it? I really would prefer direct communication to that thing you were doing that left me completely in the dark that any of this was even at issue.”

“I am sorry but I was not sure what the issue was myself, not until I had the opportunity to sit down and draw it all out.”

“Well, maybe you should show me then.”

“Show you my sketches of you?”

“Show me all of them,” Elizabeth said. “I want to see all the four and fifty sketchbooks.”

“I do not usually like to share my sketches with anyone, they are private.”

“You are asking me to share more than that with you,” she pointed out. “If you want me to be on the same page as you it is not unreasonable for me to wish to see what your pages are like first.”

“A fair point.”

“If you are asking me to trust my life into your keeping you need to trust yours in mine too.”

“Very well,” he said. “It may take a lot of time and you will see many bad drawings of boring things. Consider this your first and only warning, and remember that you may stop looking at any time.”

He got up and fetched two boxes full of thick books.

Elizabeth started flipping through them in chronological order. In the beginning, the books were full of childish drawings, mostly of dogs and ponies, a few kittens thrown in the mix.

“I got my first sketchbook when I was eight,” he said.

There were his parents. Darcy had given them several captions and they seemed strict but loving.

Birds, trees and flowers that may have been part of his studies.

Boys playing in the forest.

“That one is you?”

“Yes, and this is George Wickham.”

“You look happy.”

“We were friends once.”

A contemptuous little girl, disgusted by a frog. “Wait, is that Miss De Bourgh?” The resemblance was not great but there was something about the frown that brought her to mind.

“Yes, Anne was never a very good playmate, she shied away from anything that was fun.”

More boys playing. Mr. Darcy said they were his cousins at Matlock, but their faces were artless blobs and he was no longer sure which was which.

“I think that one is the Colonel,” Elizabeth decided. “He looks jolly.”

Darcy had drawn an older man with a crown, sitting on his throne holding a jewelled sceptre. “It’s my uncle Matlock. He’s not the King but no one has told him.”

More boys, lots of different boys. ‘You went to school?”

Elizabeth was not interested in the names and life histories of everyone pictured but here and there she stopped and attempted to guess whether Darcy had liked the person he drew. Usually he confirmed her guess, but in a couple of cases he felt it was too difficult to crystallise into a simple Liked-Did Not Like dichotomy.

From one sketchbook to another, he was slowly getting better at drawing people’s likenesses in a recognizable way but some images were more like an impression, more about the person’s actions or attitude than their appearance.

“I would not know that boy on the street but he looks like a bully.”

“He still is,” Mr. Darcy said.

There were more pictures of Wickham, getting into trouble at school. Some had captions of him saying something insouciant.

“He was an enterprising young rascal,” Darcy said. “George always had a lot of ideas, but not all of them were good.”

Mr. Darcy had gone travelling with his parents. One sketchbook was full of watercolours of landscapes, surprisingly good for his age.

“Oh, is this Edinburgh? I have always wanted to go there.”

“I could take you,” he said. “If…you know.”

On the way to and from Ireland he had been violently seasick, and many of his seascapes looked vaguely threatening.

“I am not a good sailor so likely I would never take my wife to far away lands.”

"Understood."

There was his mother, pregnant. Then there were pictures of baby Georgiana. It seemed Darcy found her sweet but fragile and did not quite know what to do with her.

More pictures of his mother. Pregnant. And then not. Pregnant. And then not.

“She had two late miscarriages after Georgiana and I think that's what broke her.”

In his last portraits of his family, Georgiana was growing taller and stronger, and his mother was fading. He had drawn her smaller, weaker and paler, and his father seemed ever more stoic and distant.

“He took it hard too,” Darcy said. “He would hardly stop working for a meal for if he sat down and looked at us he might feel something.”

The funeral. Looming figures in stark black. The cemetery, one empty grave like a gaping maw in the middle. The pall-bearers, one of them much shorter than the others.

“Actually I was always tall for my age but I suppose I felt small at the time.”

“You were very young, and you were carrying your mother to her grave.”

The rest of the pages in the sketchbook were ruined. He had started drawing something but it was hard to tell what because he had left them incomplete and crossed things over. On some pages he had scribbled all over everything in furious black strokes.

The first page of the next sketchbook had a lovely portrait of Darcy as a young boy and an inscription that said, “To my dear son Fitzwilliam, I love you forever. Merry Christmas, Mama”. The rest of the pages were blank.

“I got that the Christmas after she died. My aunt went through her things to keep or donate, and she found some gifts that Mother had wrapped for us. But I could not bear to touch it, drawing on it would have meant ruining the last thing she would ever give me.”

Elizabeth wanted to wrap him in her arms but settled for taking his hand in both of hers, hoping he understood that it was meant as a hug. “I am so sorry.“

The next book seemed very dark. He had used no colours, just black charcoal. His father’s face was blank, devoid of expression. Georgiana was always pictured crying, or on the brink of tears.

There was a new face, a stern woman of indeterminate age who was always captioned giving some advice. Elizabeth’s impression was that she seemed well-intentioned but prone to putting her foot in her mouth.

“It is my father’s elder sister,” he said. “She came to Pemberley for a while after my mother died. She lives in Cornwall now, and we rarely see her.”

“Oh, is this one Mrs. Reynolds?” The housekeeper was captioned talking about household issues that meant nothing to Elizabeth but her expression was warm and caring as she patted Darcy on the shoulder. Was that the first picture of Darcy being touched by another human being?

In the next books, Darcy was back in school. In many sketches, he had drawn himself standing slightly outside the main group, observing more than participating.

Pemberley, riding on the estate with his father.

A visit to Rosings with his father. Based on the dates on the sketches, a very quick visit.

The university. He had drawn many lecturers, and looking at the sketches, Elizabeth had a notion she knew which teachers taught the subjects that had interested him the most.

London. People of the ton.

“He is a great bore,” Elizabeth decided. “That one is a drunkard. A flirt. A determined spinster. A matchmaking mama. Is he a friend of yours? She must be a promising debutante.”

Flipping through the pages, Elizabeth thought she could tell which people Mr. Darcy liked and which ones he did not. “Oh, is this Miss Bingley - with her claws on?”

“Now you understand why I do not usually show my sketches to people.”

“Oh, there is Mr. Bingley.” He looked affable but a little vacant.

Then, another funeral. Black-clad mourners. A sea of hands waiting to be shaken, reaching towards a shrinking lone figure in the middle. The earl looking helpless. Some neighbours, trying to be supportive. Mr. Wickham, pictured as a crow hoarding a pile of expensive knick-knacks behind him, grasping for more.

The remaining pages in the book had been coloured entirely black, on both sides.

In the next books, the topics shifted. He drew nothing of gaiety. Instead there were scenes from Pemberley, or Darcy House in London. Tenants. Servants. Buildings. Neighbours. Fields and fallows. Gardens. Sheep. Ditches. Irrigation and harvesting. Cattle and horses. Account books. Business letters. More sheep. More servants. The captions all had to do with estate issues.

“You can probably tell I had no idea what I was doing.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was pictured writing comforting letters from the battlefield, while the war raged on all around him.

His uncle the Earl gave lots of advice that felt increasingly unhelpful.

Georgiana Darcy, wane and forlorn.

An unidentified woman hovering all around her.

“I hired her as Georgiana’s companion,” Mr. Darcy said. “Which turned out to be a mistake.”

Lady Catherine was sketched presiding over a parlour at Pemberley, imperious as ever: “This house needs a mistress,” the caption said.

“You know, I think she was right about that,” Mr. Darcy said.

Miss De Bourgh, as pale and disinterested as Elizabeth had ever seen her.

There were several affectionate portraits of a dog.

“My most faithful companion those days,” Mr. Darcy said. “He is very old now.”

When Mr. Darcy first returned to London after his mourning the scenes had a more disturbing feel than his first forays into society. All the matchmaking mamas were captioned slyly trying to coax him to talk about his estate or his income. A group of men congratulated him for “coming into his inheritance so early”.

Miss Bingley now had talons and an eagle’s beak.

“Once an accomplished lady has the prey in her grasp she must be ready to peck him to death at a moment’s notice,” he said.

All the debutantes he had drawn looked exactly the same, a sea of faceless women all repeating the same pointless conversations.

Mr. Bingley and another gentleman came across as supportive. “Mr. Bingley had also lost his father recently so we had a bond due to our common experience. And that's my cousin Hartwell.”

More estate matters. Mr. Wickham looking for money. Strangers begging. High stacks of letters on a desk. A wall of hands all around Mr. Darcy, trying to grasp indistinct things that he was protecting.

“Sometimes it felt like everybody wanted something from me.”

A shaky drawing of the inside of a carriage. Maps of the routes he had planned or travelled and the stops he had taken. To London. To Derbyshire. Back and forth.

A portrait of an innkeeper. “That one I drew just to remind myself, never to set foot in his inn again. I give the place one out of five stars, I would not recommend. I think one of his sons stole some money from my room.”

Even more estate matters. Negotiations with neighbours. Tenants in difficulties. The ruins of a cottage ravaged by fire. Hard work and toil. When at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy seemed to throw himself into his tasks in a very hands-on manner.

Some colour slowly returning.

More portraits of his dog. One in particular was exquisite, with lots of painstaking detail.

Another loving portrayal of a handsome stallion. “My favourite horse.”

A beautiful portrait of Georgiana Darcy playing the pianoforte.

Watercolours of rooms. Elizabeth identified some rooms that she had seen at Pemberley, others she assumed must be from Darcy’s house in London.

“I had some ideas about how to update the most faded things,” Mr. Darcy said. “But Georgiana was against it. She is not yet ready to let go of anything that our parents left us.”

Elizabeth had gone through the majority of the books by now. “I can definitely see your style shifting throughout the years. In some of these the resemblance and the details are amazing, but sometimes it seems you were not even aiming to capture the face but the essence of the person, somehow.”

“If I am busy it can be hard to find the time,” he said. “So just a few quick lines will sometimes have to do.”

More travelling. Unidentified fine estates. A horse auction. Horses. A ball in London, captioned the Marriage Market. People who looked like horses.

Another funeral.

“Sir Lewis De Bourgh.”

More travelling, between Kent, and London, and Derbyshire. A fanciful sketch of what a perfectly comfortable carriage might look like, with room to walk, eat and sleep, and music and books to keep the mind occupied. “Sadly, not very practical.”

More estate issues, dealing with the problems at Rosings. One page was divided into four squares. In the first square, Lady Catherine complained of a problem. In the second square, a solution was suggested. In the third, Lady Catherine did something else. In the fourth, she complained of further problems caused by her choice.

The next sketch looked like something exploded on the page, an abstract rendering of very violent emotion.

“A bad headache I had,” Mr. Darcy said. “The inside of my head looked exactly like that.”

“You took on a lot of new responsibilities when your uncle died.”

Mr. Darcy shrugged. “I had to.”

“Did you?”

London. Ramsgate. Balls, dinner parties, soirees, musicales. It seemed that the more society events he attended, the more his sketchbooks became a cavalcade of grotesque caricatures of ridiculous people reciting inanities.

“I have given you a weapon,” Mr. Darcy said. “You could absolutely destroy me with this. I could never show my face in polite society again if you let it be known that I have drawn His Grace, the Duke of Dumberland like that.”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 4

After Elizabeth had spent a lot of time looking at Mr. Darcy’s sketchbooks she had a feeling that she understood him much better - and not at all.

"Sometimes your life appears rather difficult in these books," she said.

"It might give you a slightly biased view," he said. "You should understand that I have mostly turned to sketching whenever I was trying to make sense of a problem or something was troubling me. So there would not be so many pictures of those times when everything was going well."

She had not yet come across any sketches of herself.

“I think you would probably prefer to view the last few sketchbooks in more privacy than the gallery affords,” Mr. Darcy said. “Normally I keep them under lock and key.”

“Why? Have you drawn my niece in something risque?” Mr. Gardiner frowned at him disapprovingly.

“I have drawn a lot of things,” Mr. Darcy said. “Several of them are mere hypotheticals, and I would not wish anyone to get the wrong idea about them. My father always told me that a good planner takes into account many alternative scenarios, and that is what I was trying to do. But if anyone took them for actual events it might embarrass Miss Bennet and I could not have that.”

“I do not know if I should be scared or not,” Elizabeth said.

“Are you asking me?” Mr. Darcy said. “If you let me decide for you, I should obviously prefer not. But you see why I would prefer to conduct this interview in private.”

“A private interview behind closed doors does not sound like something I should allow,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Perhaps we can take some time to think about it,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “We should be getting back to Lambton if we are to make our dinner engagement in time.”

Mr. Darcy invited them to return the next day, and no hour was too early for him. “Come for breakfast, if you wish.”

After Mrs. Gardiner got over the first shock of seeing Elizabeth’s pictures she thought that all this was quite romantic, and that Elizabeth should not throw away the chance to be the mistress of Pemberley. “If he asks you to marry him, do not be a fool.”

“I think he already asked,” Elizabeth said. “But I am not sure it counts as I made him do so.”

“Marrying you would be his only honourable choice,” Mr. Gardiner said. “If his servants gossip about the pictures you could be in a very compromising situation.”

“Mr. Darcy assured me that Mrs. Reynolds is very trustworthy,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes but that girl, Molly, recognized you too, and we know nothing about her,” Mr. Gardiner said. “I am very uneasy that Mr. Darcy forced you in such a predicament.”

“To be fair, he could not have foreseen that I would end up visiting,” Elizabeth said. “What are the odds?”

“Do not mention the portraits or the marriage proposal at the dinner party,” Mr. Gardiner warned. “We can try to find out more about Mr. Darcy but let us be discreet.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said.

They had been invited to dine with the Howards in Lambton. Mr. Howard was the vicar of Lambton, and Mrs. Howard was Mrs. Gardiner’s aunt. There was another couple, the Rushtons, who remembered Mrs. Gardiner well from her youth.

“It has been such a long time and it is a delight to see you again,” Mrs. Rushton said cheerfully. “And what a pretty niece you have brought.”

The introductions were warm and friendly, and Elizabeth felt welcomed. Mrs. Gardiner was asked to tell the ladies all about her children, and Mr. Rushton inquired about Mr. Gardiner’s business. Mrs. Howard shared the latest news about her children and grandchildren, the youngest of whom was four years old.

“She is a very bright girl,” she said.

Mrs. Gardiner wanted to know how the Rushtons had been for all these years, and whether their children were all married. They were not, but their son had just met a very nice girl and Mrs. Rushton was hopeful that there might be some news to share soon.

“I am so glad,” Mrs. Howard said. “They deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Then Miss Bennet was entreated to tell them all about her home in Hertfordshire. “Four sisters! What a merry family you must have had! And are all your sisters still at home?”

“My eldest sister has lately married.”

The ladies were inordinately interested in the fortunes of people they had never seen, and some time was spent pleasurably describing Jane’s wedding, her house and her husband’s plans for renovations.

When that topic was exhausted, Mr. Rushton had the happy thought to inquire about their travels. Mr. Gardiner described their route and all the stops they had taken. Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed about some of the magnificent houses they had visited. Elizabeth expressed her pleasure in the beautiful views they had had the good fortune to see.

“My aunt said Derbyshire is the prettiest place in the world and although she might be biased I am not going to argue with her.”

“Today we stopped at Pemberley,” Mr. Gardiner said. “The finest house in these parts, I understand.”

“There are a couple of larger manors,” Mrs. Howard said, “but none as well kept. The Darcys have lived in the area for centuries.”

“Oh, yes, we saw the portrait gallery,” Mr. Gardiner said. “The oldest paintings were Elizabethan in style, I believe.”

“And did you admire the Gainsborough?”

“It was certainly interesting,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I did not see it,” Elizabeth said.

“I believe Mr. Darcy could sell it for a pretty penny,” Mr. Rushton said.

“Yes but I do not think he is interested in selling it,” Mr. Howard said. "It belonged to his grandmother."

“Do you know Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Yes, everyone knows him in this town,” Mr. Howard said.

“Mind you, not very well,” Mr. Rushton said. “The boy likes to keep to himself.”

“Some say he is very proud,” Mrs. Rushton said.

“I think he is just cautious,” Mr. Howard said. “He would rather say nothing than say the wrong thing.”

“There is nothing wrong with being quiet,” Mrs. Howard said. “I expect that a man of his stature needs to establish some boundaries or risk being taken advantage of.”

“The Darcys usually worship in Kympton but he was very generous when the Lambton church needed some renovations last year,” Mr. Howard said. “He paid for the roof tiles and donated the new altarpiece. It catches everyone’s eye.”

“I look forward to seeing it next Sunday,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Who painted it?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Howard said. “It is unsigned, and Mr. Darcy said the artist was not looking for personal fame.”

Mrs. Rushton approved. “Quite right, for it is the message of the painting that should be the focus in God’s house.”

“What is the message?” Elizabeth inquired.

“Beatius est magis dare quam accipere,” said Mr. Howard.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” Mr. Rushton translated.

“Young Darcy has certainly taken that to heart,” Mr. Howard said. “If there are needy souls in the parish he is always ready to help.”

“He was a kind boy even when he was a child,” Mrs. Howard said.

“We used to see more of him when I tutored him and a couple of other boys from the neighbourhood in history, Latin and Greek,” Mr. Howard explained. “Before they went to school.”

“Margaret’s little Johnny might benefit from your tutoring as well,” Mr. Rushton said. “If you were of a mind to take on more pupils.”

“I had not planned to, but sometimes I do miss it,” Mr. Howard said. “Young children have such a fresh outlook on things, and sometimes one has to think about things from a new point of view in order to answer all their questions.”

“What were some of the questions you remember?” Mr. Gardiner asked. “My eldest son wants to know why people should learn Latin if no one speaks it now, and I have been at a loss to explain it to him properly.”

“Oh, I remember my pupils asking about that also,” Mr. Howard said. “Young Wickham in particular thought it was a waste of time to learn something that was only useful in reading dusty old books. I dare say he has not read any in his life, so he may have been entirely correct.”

“Young Wickham?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, George Wickham was his name," Mr. Howard said. "He lived at Pemberley at the time."

“I have met him, I think,” Elizabeth said. “He is an officer in a militia regiment that recently stayed near my home.”

“Oh, he has found honest employment?” Mr. Rushton said. “We are so glad. It is two steps above a horsethief at least.”

“Young Wickham was such a polite boy but he had no head for languages, and no interest in any kind of studying,” Mr. Howard said. “I think he copied his homework from his friend. They always made the same mistakes, until I started giving everyone different assignments. Then he complained to the elder Mr. Darcy that the homework I gave him was far too difficult. But I told Mr. Darcy that George Wickham’s assignments were more elementary than anyone else’s.”

“He always was looking for the easy way out,” said Mrs. Howard. “He was the kind of child who was never hungry for the soup and ate just his desserts.”

“In that he has changed, I think,” Elizabeth said. “He ate very generous helpings of all my mother’s courses whenever he dined at Longbourn.”

“A prudent man does not spit at free food,” Mrs. Rushton said.

“Lessons one can learn from history,” Mr. Howard said. “Reading about famines has certainly made me more appreciative of my wife’s fine table.”

“Mrs. Howard, I dare say I speak for all of us when I say we are all appreciative of your fine table,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I am so happy to have you all here,” Mrs. Howard said. “And I hope we can meet again, while you are in the area. Have you made many plans for your stay in Lambton?”

“Our plans are not quite fixed,” said Mr. Gardiner. “But tomorrow we thought to tour the grounds at Pemberley. We only had the time to view the house and the housekeeper told us that there are several lovely footpaths that we should not miss.”

“Yes, the views are very picturesque from what I remember,” said Mr. Rushton. “Although it has been many years and I have not seen the park at Pemberley during the current master’s reign. I am afraid that my hiking days are over.”

“I do not think he has changed the scenery much,” said Mr. Howard. “He always had an eye for natural beauty. He once painted me a lovely portrait of Alexander the Great surveying the kingdom from the top of a mountain.”

“Oh, he was of an artistic bent as a child?” Mr. Gardiner succeeded in displaying an admirably mild degree of polite interest, and Elizabeth was grateful to him because it kept Mr. Howard talking about the subject of her recent fascination.

“I recall he also drew a picture of Socrates drinking the poison,” Mr. Howard said. “He wanted to know why, and I did not have a good answer for him.”

“A lot of history is rather upsetting,” Mrs. Howard said. “Those classical tales are often very dark as well.”

“Murder, mayhem, and betrayal,” Mr. Rushton said. “It is very hard to know who one can trust when anybody can be a god disguised as a swan.”

Everyone laughed.

“I think I still have some of his drawings somewhere.” Mr. Howard went rummaging through his bookshelves and eventually found the drawings between the covers of a large atlas.

The drawings were childish in style and some had written assignments in Greek or Latin on the other side.

“The other boys complained about the Greek letters and said learning to spell English was hard enough. But young Darcy liked the shapes and had very beautiful handwriting in Greek.”

“I struggled with the letters myself,” Mr. Rushton said.

“My goodness,” Mr. Howard said. “I had forgotten the elephants.”

Elizabeth saw the picture of Alexander the Great on the mountain top. The view before him was a flowery valley, like a piece of paradise. But Alexander’s troops stood behind him, riding ferocious war elephants, ready to pillage and destroy.

"Is there blood on their teeth?" Mrs. Gardiner asked.

Another picture was a chaotic scene of an emperor facing an angry crowd. The caption was drawn like a carving in stone, and said, “ET TU BRUTE”.

When Elizabeth looked closer at the details she saw that the emperor was busy being backstabbed. The characters were all ancient Romans clad in togas, yet the backstabber’s smirk reminded Elizabeth inexplicably of Mr. Wickham’s smiles.

“Mind you,” said Mr. Howard. “I do not think these elephants are an accurate depiction.”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 5

When the Gardiners and Elizabeth spoke about going to Pemberley the next morning, Mr. Gardiner wanted to go to the village first.

“Mr. Howard said the church is open for morning prayers. I think we could all use some spiritual guidance at this point in our lives.”

The church was small but neat, and Mrs. Gardiner pointed out some details that she thought had been changed in the recent renovations. They spent some time listening to Mr. Howard reciting prayers, and when he asked for an open heart to understand his fellow men and the wisdom make good decisions Elizabeth could full-heartedly join him in that request.

The new altarpiece was a colourful painting of the apostles feeding a crowd, and Elizabeth liked the detail. She felt she could tell which people were the hungriest. The happiest person in the painting was a young child in the foreground who was taking care of his little siblings, feeding them instead of eating himself.

After the few faithful attending joined Mr. Howard for an off key hymn they all left the church.

“I liked the renovations,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “There is more light now, and the floor was less uneven than I remember.”

“The new altarpiece was beautiful,” Elizabeth said.

“Yes, and I am happy to see that your boy Darcy had not painted you in it,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Or if he did, at least he was good enough to give you a veil. I was half worried that we would find your face as Maria Magdalena, or Esther.”

“Mrs. Howard wrote to me about the altarpiece last year,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “I do not think he had even met Elizabeth before it was finished.”

“He is not my boy Darcy,” Elizabeth said.

“Is he not?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Just say the word and I think he will be,” Mr. Gardiner said. “I am just a little confused about what you want.”

“I want to see the rest of the sketches.”

In the end, Mr. Gardiner allowed Mr. Darcy to have a private tête-à-tête with Elizabeth in his study. Mr. Darcy had arranged reasons for most of his servants to be somewhere else, so no one would see Elizabeth enter. The Gardiners could wait in the library.

“I think you will be able to spend an agreeable hour there. And once we are done we can rejoin your company through the connecting doors, and no one should be able to create any scandal out of it.”

“I am only agreeing on the understanding that if this plan fails and there is unpleasant gossip, you both must do the right thing.”

“Very well,” Mr. Darcy said. “I suppose that doing the right thing would mean I get to do what I am looking to achieve anyway so you can be assured of my cooperation. But I would wish for a more conventional resolution so let us strive for discretion.”

“And you, sir, will do nothing to cause gossip,” Mr. Gardiner said sternly. “Even if it would mean you get your way.”

“Of course not!” Mr. Darcy was so scandalized it soothed Mr. Gardiner’s fears somewhat.

“Elizabeth? I need your cooperation too,” Mr. Gardiner demanded.

“Certainly, but I do not think there will be anything to worry about,” Elizabeth said, so nonchalantly that the Gardiners began to suspect that the outcome of marrying Mr. Darcy did not seem as disagreeable to her as it might have been the previous morning.

The library had not been a part of the housekeeper’s tour so the Gardiners were pleasantly surprised to find themselves in a veritable treasure vault of books.

“I may arrange for a scandal myself,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “Just to get visiting rights here.”

“Not necessary in the slightest,” said Mr. Darcy. “I can grant you the visiting rights, regardless of the outcome of our interview. You may feel free to join my books, any time you are in the area.”

“This is our first time in ten years,” Mr. Gardiner pointed out.

“I have a good library in London too,” Mr. Darcy said, which definitely counted in his favour.

When Elizabeth finally sat down at Mr. Darcy’s desk she questioned him once more about his insistence on privacy.

“Why did you think it so necessary that we be alone for this?” Elizabeth asked.

“To protect the innocent,” he said. “Some of the sketches reveal a story that I would rather not make public knowledge.”

“It will go no further from me,” she promised. “Is that all?”

“Supposing you are upset with me after you have viewed the last books, you can yell at me more freely if we are alone.”

“All right,” Elizabeth said. “I shall prepare myself by searching the room for things to throw at you.”

“Anything but the paperweight,” Mr. Darcy said. “That thing breaks into very tiny, very sharp shards. My father used to have a similar one.”

"I make no promises."

Elizabeth’s exploration into Mr. Darcy’s life continued with a sketchbook which started innocuously enough. There were summery landscapes in Derbyshire, tenants building something, and a very pretty black foal.

“I have high hopes for that horse,” she said.

He laughed and said he felt the same way. “His name is Raven.”

Then there was a hastily drawn crude map in which he had marked a few alternative routes to Ramsgate.

“I received a concerning letter from a servant in my employ, and wanted to travel very quickly,” he explained.

On the next page, Elizabeth recognized Mr. Wickham. He was walking on the seaside, trying to make himself agreeable to an unidentified female who was shown from behind, wearing a bonnet. He was his usual handsome self, but she thought that she could detect something insincere about his expression. “Hang your brother! We could live very comfortably on your dowry,” the caption said.

“I assume that is not Mary King,” she said. “I do not think she has a brother.”

“No,” he said. “No, it is not Mary King.”

He did not divulge the lady’s identity but he did not have to. The next pages contained several portraits of Georgiana Darcy in some distress.

“I am sure the Gardiners can be discreet but they do not know my sister and I did not wish to share sensational stories about her with strangers. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” she said. She waited for a beat, but he said nothing further.

“But I do not know your sister either,” she finally pointed out.

“No, but I know you,” he said. “We are not strangers.”

She had not previously considered it a compliment but right now, with how he looked at her, she found herself rather happy to have gained not-stranger status in his eyes.

“Perhaps we can be more than that,” she said boldly. “We could be friends.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But you had better look through the rest of the books first before committing to anything. I do not want us to become friends, only to start dodging paperweights the next moment.”

“Does that happen to you often?”

“Never,” he said. “But I have never shown my sketchbooks to anyone else before.”

A woman was pictured walking away from a house, carrying her bags. Elizabeth thought she remembered her face from the previous day’s session. “Was she the hiring mistake?”

“My sister’s former companion turned out to be Mr. Wickham’s minion. She told Georgiana that true love was worth fighting for and that I might be happy if she eloped for it would save me the trouble of attending the wedding.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said. “It is true I do not usually love weddings. But if my sister ever marries a scoundrel I want to be there so I can jump up and object.”

Elizabeth recognized Colonel Fitzwilliam from her brief acquaintance with him but the man was wearing an expression of rage that was unfamiliar to her.

“He is my sister’s other guardian,” Mr. Darcy explained. “And not fond of Mr. Wickham.”

One page was divided in four squares, and each square contained a quick, angrily drawn sketch of Mr. Wickham dying in messy ways.

“If that man is ever found shot, stabbed, sliced into small pieces or stoned to death, my cousin and I would be the first suspects,” Mr. Darcy said.

“This book is practically a confession,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe you had better burn it. Or tear some pages out.”

“I have never torn a page out of a sketchbook,” Mr. Darcy said, seemingly shocked by the thought. “It would quite ruin the rest of it.”

“You like to keep everything in order?”

Elizabeth did not know where he usually stored the sketchbooks, but the previous day, it had been quite easy for him to produce them all. He had not had to search for a single one, and when she wanted to look at them chronologically he had not needed to check and arrange them, he had simply given them to her in perfect order.

“I use loose leaf paper for things that I might need to dispose of,” he said. “If there are torn edges in the middle of a book the way the other pages fall feels wrong.”

“I know how that feels,” she said. “I had a diary once, when I was a child. I cut a page out but then another page became loose, and I never wrote in that diary again.”

There was a picture of Georgiana Darcy with an older couple. Elizabeth thought the lady must be the Colonel’s mother, and the man bore some resemblance to Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Miss Darcy looked embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“My uncle and aunt,” Mr. Darcy said. “She is very kind but my uncle - well, you are familiar with his sister.”

“Say no more,” Elizabeth replied. “Maria Lucas is still terrified of folding her gowns wrong and ruining them. She says Lady Catherine gave her very particular advice on how trunks are to be packed.”

“My uncle is the same,” Mr. Darcy said. “Packing trunks would be quite below his dignity. But he must always know best about everything else.”

“Not the most comforting confidante for a young girl then?”

“Probably not,” Mr. Darcy said. “But my aunt was the best option for a chaperon I could produce on short notice. ”

Then there were seven pictures of women of varying ages.

“I was interviewing companions,” he explained. “Which one do you think I should have hired?”

“How should I know? I have never met them and do not know the first thing about them,” she exclaimed incredulously.

“Just look,” he said. “Please.”

Elizabeth did as she was bid and took her time looking at the alternatives. Eventually she ruled one out because she looked very strict and humourless, and another because she appeared too timid to protect anyone. She had no real idea why she did not like the third one, it was just a vague feeling of discomfort. There was something about the fourth that struck her as untrustworthy but she could not have put the reason into words either. The remaining three all seemed very respectable, and it was more difficult to pick between them. But finally she made her choice.

“Number six,” she said. "The one with the lovely pendant."

“Why did you choose number six?”

“It was your best sketch?” She shrugged.

“It is not a great work of art, objectively speaking,” he said. “I made her ears too high and I do not think the shape of the face is quite right either. Why did you choose her?”

"I like her taste in accessories."

"That is not it," he said. "Why did you pick her?"

"You are a strange one," she said. "Very oddly insisting that I must have a reason for choices that I make."

"You do, even if you do not know it," he said.

She stared at the sketch for a moment longer. “She looks kind but prudent and practical. She has lived through some hard times, and it has taught her to be compassionate. She has enough spine to be strict when required but has not completely forgotten how to smile.”

Mr. Darcy exhaled loudly, as if he had been holding his breath. “That is Mrs. Annesley,” he said. “You will learn to know her, if…”

“If she forgives you for the ears?”

“You cannot tell her I got her ears wrong,” he said. “I forbid it.”

“Ah, we are not even engaged and already you are telling me what to do,” she said.

“No doubt I am going to be quite a tyrannical husband,” he said. His intonation sounded tentative, like a question.

“Yes, you are,” she said. “Quite horrendous, in all likelihood.”

She looked at Mrs. Annesley and his other candidates again. “So we picked the same one? What are the odds?”

“They do say great minds think alike,” he offered. “And I dare say dull ones may converge every once in a while too.”

“Perhaps it is just that you liked her the best so you drew her in the most flattering way.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I think we have some tastes in common.”

“Of course,” she said. “If you liked things that I do not like, then you would be wrong, and we could not have that.”

Then there was a diagram of a very odd scale, with letters G and B in the two cups. The scale was attached to a several pulleys that were marked “Mrs. A”, “B’s Ss”, and “R”, and appeared to be dragging the scale in different directions.

She looked at him questioningly.

“I was trying to decide whether I should stay with my sister or go to Netherfield with Bingley,” he explained.

“It was a matter requiring complex engineering?”

“Yes,” he said. “One should have a machine for these things.”

“The human brain is apt to get things wrong,” she agreed.

“I would much rather have stayed with Georgiana than Bingley’s sisters. But Mrs. Annesley and my cousin thought that my dark mood was not helping her cheer up at the time.”

“So you decided to inflict your dark mood upon us in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth said dryly.

He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well, I suppose I did.”

There were sketches of Netherfield Park, and a portrait of Mr. Bingley, pictured looking like an enthusiastic child playing with his miniature dollhouse.

Mr. and Mrs. Hurst had been portrayed as a couple, languid and bored, gazing decidedly away from each other.

“That is the kind of a marriage that I do not want,” he said.

She found herself agreeing. Had she wanted that kind of a marriage she could have married Mr. Collins. But aloud she said just, “Fair.”

Then there was a sketch of Miss Bingley that looked a bit like a wanted sign.

“Do you know this woman? Last seen wearing an ostrich,” she said. “If you see her, do not approach.”

“Beware, she may try to mend your pen,” he said.

“How on earth did Mr. Bingley become so nice?”

Mr. Darcy had no explanation to give, so she moved on and flipped through more pages.

“Oh, is that Sir William Lucas?”

Sir William had been the first Meryton resident to greet and welcome Mr. Bingley and his party. There were several small sketches of him on the same page, affable but slightly vapid. One caption said, “The last time I was at St James…” and another, “My daughters would marry any stick in the breeze if he had an income.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“That was not a verbatim quote,” Mr. Darcy said. “It was more of a general impression he gave.”

“I would say that it was pretty harsh of you,” Elizabeth said. “But then again, he was ecstatic when Charlotte married Mr. Collins.”

“He framed things in such a way that he made it impossible for Bingley not to dance the first with his eldest daughter at the assembly."

Based on the sketchbook, Mr. Darcy had thrown himself into the Netherfield affairs with the same intensity as Pemberley or Rosings. There were maps and diagrams, and sketches of fences, barns, and tenant cottages. He had had several plans for improvements, and Elizabeth recognized a few things that Mr. Bingley had been talking about.

“So it was you putting all these ideas in my brother’s mind.”

He shrugged. “Bingley asked me to come and help him get started. So that is what I did. I am sure he could have come up with these ideas on his own.”

“But he did not.”

“He could have. Some day.” He looked uncomfortable. “I would have liked more time with my father so he could teach me these things, and Bingley did not even grow up on an estate.”

“Then I must take the liberty of thanking you on his behalf.”

“You are welcome,” he said. “Or should I say he is welcome?”

“I do not mind either way.”

“In any case, it got me out of the house,” he said. “It gave Miss Bingley a respite from coming up with new things to admire about me.”

There was the vicar, smiling beatifically. “Regarding the parish needs, we have always been able to count on the extremely generous donations from the Netherfield residents,” the caption said. The second line said, “I am not begging, this is merely information that you need to fund us accordingly.”

Elizabeth recognized Mr. Goulding in the next sketch. “So nice to meet you,” he was quoted as saying, “but your side of the fencing needs urgent repairs!” In parentheses, Mr. Darcy had written, “Next time: Demand favours faster! Waste no time in stupid pleasantries!”

“He is a rather blunt character,” Elizabeth said.

“I quite liked him,” Mr. Darcy said. “It was no mystery what he wanted from us.”

“Did he happen to mention that he thinks your fence is too far on his side?”

“Did he ever,” Mr. Darcy said. “He spoke about the fence for a full quarter of an hour.”

“I am disappointed in him,” Elizabeth said. "I thought he could hold forth much longer than that."

“Bingley was very popular with the gentlemen of Meryton those days,” he said. “There was a Mr. Purvis who visited, and your uncle, Mr. Philips came to offer his legal services.”

“Where is his picture?”

“I do not think I have drawn him,” Mr. Darcy said. “There was no need, everything he said was straightforward and he did not stay long, just enough to introduce himself and leave his card.”

“He is the best lawyer in Meryton,” Elizabeth said. “And the only one.”

Mr. Darcy touched the sketchbook, pausing before he turned the page. “If you need to yell at me you may wish to do it now.”

Soon Elizabeth understood why. The likeness of her father was quite good, although not exactly flattering.

On the next page, Mr. Bennet was sprawled in his chair lazily, and the caption said, “My girls are all very silly but I had nothing to do with it.”

Elizabeth shrieked in dismay. “Papa!”

“Again, not a verbatim quote,” Mr. Darcy said.

“The worst thing is that I could picture him saying exactly that,” she said. “He was never a very involved father and would rather mock us for being silly than take the trouble of showing us how to be otherwise.”

“It is possible that he was the silly one,” Mr. Darcy said.

There was a close-up of Mr. Bennet’s face, scrunched in a cynical frown. The text said, “Jane is my pretty daughter but I don’t know anything else about her.”

“Bingley had seen her in Meryton, you understand,” Mr. Darcy said. “So he was instantly smitten, and he was asking questions about her, but I do not think that Mr. Bennet had good answers.”

There was one more sketch of Mr. Bennet, this one more like a caricature in style. “If my Lizzy was a boy he might not be a complete dullard.”

“Usch!” she exclaimed disgustedly.

Then she was silent for a long time.

Finally she said, “You did not want to dance with me, and it makes complete sense now.”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 6

The next page in the sketchbook contained several quick little scribbles. One was of another scale. In one cup, Mr. Darcy had drawn a tiny madman playing a broken fiddle. The other cup contained two stick figures wearing triangles for a skirt and poking at another stick figure whose only identifying feature was a top hat.

“What is this?” Elizabeth asked.

“I was trying to decide if I should go to the Meryton assembly with Bingley. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would have stayed at Netherfield with me, no doubt requiring constant attention,” Mr. Darcy said. “Neither alternative was particularly pleasing.”

“Your life is a constant trial,” she said.

“I am not good with crowds,” he said.

“I might have been able to figure that out,” she said, looking at the next pages. On the left side of the spread, he had drawn a very chaotic scene at the assembly hall, viewed from the entrance. The dancers were going in every direction at once, in danger of collisions. Several people looked very drunk. One character was more like a shaky blur than a person, and there was an apparent loud argument going on in the background. All that was missing was the noise and the headache.

On the right side, the chaos had paused for a moment, and everyone had turned to stare piercingly at the newcomers.

“It reminds me of that menacing scene I saw earlier,” she said. “The mob that killed Julius Caesar.”

“Right, a little backstabbing always enlivens a dull party,” he said.

A little too late, she remembered that she had seen the imperial carnage at the dinner party Mr. Darcy had not been present at and wondered if she should explain her further sources of information. But as he did not seem inclined to question her she decided to let the matter go, eager to continue her perusal of the sketches.

There was Bingley, smiling at a stiff backed female whose face was indistinct. Charlotte, perhaps?

Mr. Darcy had sketched Mrs. Hurst in the middle of his dance with her. “How to dance a perfect reel: an accomplished woman can hop, step, shake and twirl, and be utterly bored throughout it all,” the caption said.

“Politeness requires me to ask her to dance,” he said. “And it is so relaxing when it is all over.”

There were a couple of sketches of Miss Bingley. In one, she was talking with some locals and looked like a fashion plate who had swallowed a lemon. In another, she was facing Mr. Darcy, with a smile of delight that looked somehow contorted. It was not captioned as much as headlined: “Enchanted, Mr. Darcy.”

“It took me a while to catch on to the difference but she fakes many of her smiles,” he said. “And none of her flattery is sincere.”

“I have noticed,” Elizabeth said.

Mrs. Bennet was pictured in the middle of an open-mouthed soliloquy, gawking at somebody, probably Bingley. “He just got a house, he must be in want of a wife,” the caption said. “He can have any of my daughters, no questions asked.”

Elizabeth recognised Kitty in a group of girls. She was pointing at somebody mockingly and they were all laughing. Elizabeth did not know why, until she read the caption. “Mary would rather read than dance - what a joke! Good thing she actually can read!”

“Poor Mary!” Elizabeth said.

Another sketch was of Mrs. Bennet sitting with Mrs. Philips, vulgarly ogling at somebody. “Oh sister! Look at how he fills his breeches!”

“I thought they were speaking of me, but I could not be sure,” he said.

“You drew so many sketches from the assembly.”

“I had a lot of time the next morning,” he said. “None of the Bingley siblings emerged early from their rooms, after a late night.”

“You have a really good eye for faces, and details.”

“When one does not like to dance there is a lot of time to observe.”

“You seem to have paid special attention to us,” she said. “The Bennets, I mean.”

“That is because Bingley was so smitten with your sister, and his sisters had so many opinions about your family. In the carriage back to Netherfield, they all pressed upon me to agree with them. But Bingley has been known to wear rose-coloured glasses when he is infatuated with somebody, and his sisters already hated everyone in Hertfordshire before ever meeting a single soul, so I wanted to make up my own mind.”

"And what did you decide?”

He did not respond to the question directly, just waved vaguely at the sketchbooks. “Most of it is there in those books.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words, is it? I suppose that by that metric you have been ever so talkative and open with me today.”

“I want to be all that but words are a tricky thing,” he said. “They often trip me up. People so frequently say things they do not mean and mean things they do not say.”

“So how do you deal with that?”

“I pay attention to their faces,” he said. “Sometimes their real thoughts leak through in their expressions, even if they are pretending to smile and nod. But it is so fleeting I cannot always tell until I have sketched it.”

“What am I thinking now?” she asked.

“I wish I knew.”

There was a sketch of Mary, isolated, and lonely.

“You have drawn her with such compassion,” she said. “She looks miserable but so beautiful.”

“I found her to be a kindred spirit,” he said. “She was the only one in attendance who looked as uncomfortable and awkward to be there as I felt.”

Lydia had been sketched in a dark corner, nearly spilling out of her dress and standing far too close to a young man who had his hands upon her person. The caption said, “Lydia is the most lively of my daughters, and such a favourite with all the young gentlemen!”

Elizabeth groaned in dismay. “Who is that man? I cannot discern his face.”

“I only saw him that one time,” Mr. Darcy said. “I do not know his name but I heard him say he would go back to Oxford the next week.”

“Oh, then it must be Arthur Goulding,” Elizabeth said. “I did not know Lydia had had anything to do with him.”

“It certainly did not seem like a serious relationship,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Perhaps later when they are both a bit older and wiser,” Elizabeth said, full of misgivings.

“Perhaps later when they are both more sober,” he said.

“Unfortunately it seems you did not catch our family at our best that night.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said.

“But you do not look entirely convinced,” she said.

“Their behaviour is not always entirely proper,” he said. “Can we agree on that?”

“Yes but for better and for worse, they are the family I come with, and I love them.”

He was silent for a long while, thinking it through.

Eventually he nodded and said, “I realize that, and I need you to know that if you agreed to share your life with me they would become my family too.”

“What does it mean?”

“I might not always be comfortable with them but I would love them for giving me you to love.”

He fixed an intense gaze on her, and there was another long silence. She could think of nothing to say either, so she turned to the sketchbook again.

“Oh, there’s Jane!” Elizabeth said. Jane was dancing with a hastily sketched male who might or might not have been the eldest Lucas son. The sketch made Jane look mild-mannered and polite, but her smile was slightly vacant. The caption said, “My daughter’s beauty is her only identifying characteristic.”

“I lost count how many times your mother mentioned that her eldest daughter was very pretty.”

There was a caricature of lady Lucas speaking with Caroline Bingley, both gesturing in a vaguely catlike manner. “Jane Bennet is such a sweet girl! So sad about her lack of dowry!”

“Oh dear!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “So that is how Caroline Bingley knew all about our sad, straitened circumstances?”

There was an entire page of tiny Janes, speaking and dancing with various people, always serene and kind, even when she was dancing with Arthur Goulding, who had been far too drunk for polite company at that time of the evening. The caption asked, “Does she always wear the same smile?”

“Believe me, when Jane loses her serenity you do not want to be there,” Elizabeth said.

“Well, luckily that will be for Bingley to deal with,” he said. “What are you like when you lose your serenity?”

“Oh, absolutely scathing,” she said. “Sarcastic and apt to exaggerate everyone’s faults.”

“I cannot wait,” he said.

“For what?”

“For our first fight,” he said. “And for the reconciliation.”

“Are you not being a bit presumptuous?” she asked, tilting her head, as if the changed viewing angle would give her a different opinion about this man.

“The way I see it,” he said, “as long as you have not given me your answer you are both at the same time. You are both my future wife and the woman who broke my heart.”

“Oh.”

“As long as we do not know how things will turn out, can we not assume they will turn out well?”

“Oh. Is that your general philosophy in life?”

“No,” he said. “I am a worrier by nature. But here you are, against all odds, in my home, looking through all these books with me, and probably learning all my deep dark secrets.”

“I have certainly learned a great deal.”

“Yet you are still here, determined to see these pages through with me,” he said. “You have not rejected me yet. So I am hopeful.”

“I could not stop looking now if I wanted to,” she said. “It would be like reading the first three volumes of a novel and never finding out how it ends because the author died before writing the last part.”

“Anything that puts off my rejection for longer,” he said. “While you are making up your mind, I would rather cherish you as the love of my life than react to you like you were the heartbreaker.”

“A good call,” she said. “I am sure to enjoy it better than being egged and thrown out of the house. Or whatever you do with the women you break your heart.”

“I am still hoping to never find out,” he said. “I have never had anyone break my heart before.”

At that moment Elizabeth had no wish to be the first one. Her feelings were more tender and more protective of him than ever before. But she still did not understand.

“Here is the thing,” she said. “So far I have come across many reasons for you to avoid the Bennet family, and nothing that would make you wish to marry into it.”

“I do not have the words to explain,” he said. “Maybe you will see if you go on looking.”

“All right, bring it on,” she said. “Let us see what you have got.”

She turned the page to the last drawing in this sketchbook.

“Good heavens!”

On the earlier pages he had sketched everything from the assembly in black and white.

But this was a watercolour and he had used beautiful pastel shades.

Or rather, he had used shades of grey to paint the crowd of faceless, nameless revellers. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, for the eye to focus on an ethereal, luminous figure of a woman who looked a lot like Elizabeth, only more beautiful, more colourful, more beloved than she had ever felt.

The caption said, “She is tolerable…”

This time it was she who could not find the words. She stared at the painting. Then she stared at him. Then at the painting again.

“When I saw how that picture came out,” he said, “that was when I knew.“

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 7

Elizabeth was rather stunned by the revelations of the last hour. She had received an unimaginable insight into the inner workings of this quiet man she had thought proud and distant and utterly unattracted to her. But he had painted her like a goddess, like a heroine, like a wood nymph, like a lover. And she could not say she was unmoved.

The next sketchbook she went through was either a love letter or a testament to Mr. Darcy’s obsession with her. So many pictures of her, each finding some new beauty in her. He had drawn her standing in front of Netherfield, throwing everyone else in shade. Elizabeth looked at the date on the picture and thought it must have been the day they had called on Mr. Bingley’s sisters.

“I do not recall seeing you that day.”

“We did not speak,” he said. “But I saw you.”

There was another painted portrait in which she was seen from a distance, likely on Oakham Mount, looking like the queen of all that she surveyed. “That was one day I was out riding with Bingley.”

He had sketched her speaking with Charlotte at Lucas Lodge. Then there was another sketch of Elizabeth playing the pianoforte. The caption said, “Cool your porridge,” and she was quite confused about it.

“It was just something you said,” he said. “I was trying to take your advice, but cooling anything turned out to be rather difficult.”

One watercolour was titled “Meditating On The Pleasure”, and it was a close-up of her eyes. The colour and shape and even the proportions of her eyelashes looked very familiar to her, she had seen that sight in the mirror every day of her life.

“Pleasure of what?”

“Oh, just an aesthetic matter,” he said. “You have fine eyes.”

“They are frighteningly accurate,” she said, “considering I did not even pose for you.”

“I never draw people from a pose,” he said. “It would feel very awkward to be in such unwavering eye contact for so long, and people are more real when they do not know they are being observed.”

“I was aware that you were observing me,” Elizabeth said. “But I rather thought you were cataloguing my faults.”

“Sometimes I may have been looking for your flaws,” he admitted. “But it does not follow that I found any.”

There were so many sketches from when Jane was sick at Netherfield. One was titled, “Six Inches Deep In Mud”, and portrayed her as a warrior queen, come to protect her people. “Improving Her Mind With Extensive Reading” was a celebration of an awkward hour she had spent in the drawing room with Bingley's party that had been very uncomfortable for Elizabeth. But apparently he had spent every moment memorizing the curve of her neck, the curls on her forehead, and the shape of her fingernails.

She had not been wearing gloves, and from the looks of it, he had been quite fascinated with her bare hands.

“Now I know why they call it a drawing room,” she said. “And here I thought you were writing important letters.”

“No!” he said, startled. “I never sketched you where anyone could see. Can you imagine Miss Bingley’s reaction to this book?”

“Very well,” she said. “She would say that anyone who can draw that much cannot draw ill, and offer to mend your pens.”

“Starve It With A Sonnet” was a portrait Mr. Darcy had drawn of Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth the day her mother had visited Jane.

“Oh, we do look alike!” she exclaimed. “Usually everyone says that Jane and Lydia resemble our mother the most.”

“In colouring, they do take after her more than you do,” Mr. Darcy said. “But the shapes of your faces are remarkably similar.”

There was another quick sketch of her mother, with a slight sneer that Elizabeth recognised. He had written, “There is quite as much of that going on in the country.”

“As much of what?” she asked.

“I do not know what it was about,” he said. “All I know is that she made that face after I said something. But whatever I did to offend her I have no idea.”

“Really?”

“We were talking about the differences between town and country,” he said. “I said there were more people in London, and she started huffing and protesting like she disagreed. But it is just an obvious, inarguable fact that there are more people in London so it must have been about something else.”

“I think she was apt to be offended by you from the very start of our acquaintance,” she said. “You refused to dance with her daughters and she took it as a slight. So did I, incidentally.”

“But I did not dance with anyone’s daughters at that first assembly,” he said. “Apart from my host’s sisters.”

“Well, you said it yourself so in this you could not disagree with her,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Ladies sitting down in want of a partner were slighted by the gentlemen who did not ask them.”

He was much struck by this thought. “I should apologise,” he said. “I wish I had danced with you that evening.”

“I wish you had, too.”

“But you might have thought I was an idiot, anyway,” he said. “You were so merry and beautiful, and I was not at all prepared to talk to you, so I would have been tongue-tied and said something stupid, and you would have gone home and told all your friends to avoid me at all costs.”

“Now we will never know,” she said. “You might have made a great match with Charlotte.”

“What?”

“Never mind, I am just thinking aloud,” she said. “It is merely that I was trying to avoid Mr. Collins at all costs and she went and married him. So if I was avoiding you too…”

“Do not even joke about it,” he said. “There is nobody for me but you. I hope you know that.”

“I have been slow to catch on,” she said. “But starting to get an inkling.”

He had drawn her speaking with Bingley, and captioned it, “Yielding to persuasion is no merit.”

“Do you still hold that view?” she asked.

“It depends,” he said. “In general I do not like unreliable people who are blown hither and thither with the winds. But currently there is something I am very much hoping to persuade you about.”

There was a picture of Elizabeth looking a little defiant, confrontational. It was captioned, “Despise me if you dare.”

“I do not know what I did to make you think so,” he said. “But I hope you understand by now that despising you was the furthest thing from my mind.”

There was Elizabeth in the gardens of Netherfield, seen from behind. “That picture haunted me,” he said. “You would rather walk away than join me for a stroll.”

“I had no desire to walk with Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said. “And I do not think she wanted to walk with me.”

“She did, another day.”

There was another version of the portrait she had seen in the gallery, of her drawing room promenade with Miss Bingley. And finally Elizabeth understood why he had said he could better admire a woman’s figure from where he was sitting.

“Is that really how I look like?”

“It is to me,” he said.

Next to Miss Bingley, she was like a proud princess, commanding attention. She was wearing her reworked muslin gown that had been only her fourth best dress even when it was new, but the way it fell upon her form and accentuated her curves…

“I have never thought my appearance to be anything special but I look so pretty in everything that you have drawn.”

“It is not my fault,” he said. “I draw what I see.”

The next picture was the same setting, again contrasting Elizabeth and Miss Bingley. Miss Bingley preened like a peacock, and Elizabeth had a slight smile, as if she had a private secret. He had written, “Vanity is a weakness but the pride of a superior being will be under good regulation.”

In smaller handwriting, he had added a postscript. “One such as she should be proud!”

“You know, you are in great danger of making me vain,” she said.

“Go ahead, blame me for everything,” he said, and she laughed.

But she did not laugh at the next page.

She was still pretty, alluring, and everything divine. But there was something disturbing about the angle and the contemptuous expression on her face. Apparently he had been sitting down and looking at her from below while she was standing up, towering above him and talking to him defiantly. The text said, “Your only flaw is that you hate everybody!”, and although she did not remember raising her voice then Elizabeth could hear it in her angriest tones.

“I knew then that you did not feel the same way about me,” he said ruefully. “You would not have looked at me like that. It was the same face your mother made.”

“I had no idea what you felt whatsoever,” she said. “You never acted like a suitor.”

“I did not go about any of it the right way,” he said. “But at first I thought I should just try to forget you. That I would make a fool of myself trying to woo a…” He cut himself off.

“Trying to woo a penniless nobody from a vulgar family who did not even like you,” she filled in.

“For future reference, you said that, not I.”

“Yes but you know, you have shown me several rather unflattering portrayals of my relations and neighbours, and I must say that it did sting.”

“I understand,” he said. “But please note that I have shown you several unflattering pictures of my own relatives too.”

“That you did,” she acknowledged. “Think of the awkward holiday celebrations we could have if we invited them them all.”

“It sounds just perfect,” he said.

On the next page she was on the street, smiling at a faceless officer.

“It is Wickham, of course,” he said. “I could not bear to draw his lying face on the same page as you. But I saw your smile, and wanted to remember it. You never smiled at me like that.”

“I am sorry for taking his side.”

“It is his talent,” Mr. Darcy said. “Over the years, I have believed a few of his fictional tales of woe myself.”

“Maybe he should consider becoming a novelist.”

“It is not in this sketchbook,” he said. “But I drew his portrait and showed it to the shopkeepers in Meryton, so they would know not to offer him credit.”

“Good,” she said.

“That man comes up again and again, like a bad penny,” he said. “I took it as a sign that maybe I should leave Hertfordshire.”

Next, Elizabeth found herself looking at scenes from the Netherfield ball. She was dancing with Mr. Collins, trying her best to be polite and cover her annoyance. There was a picture of her mother, proclaiming her happiness in Elizabeth’s upcoming marriage.

“You did not look at all happy dancing with him,” Mr. Darcy said. “But I did not think that even your mother would announce your engagement quite so loudly if it was not a fact.”

“He had made no secret that he planned to ask me,” she said. “He and my mother just could not conceive that I might refuse him.”

Mr. Bennet was sitting at the side of the room with a glass in his hand, smirking at Mr. Collins.

“I had some ideas for improvements at Longbourn,” Mr. Darcy said. “There are things he could do to increase the productivity. But your father said most of his trouble would only benefit his silly heir.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Collins will inherit some day. But in the meantime, more income could benefit us greatly.”

“Right,” he said. “However, Mr. Bennet was not interested in hearing about it if it meant he had to do something.”

There was Mary, playing the pianoforte like a brave martyr facing a horde of hungry lions. The way he had drawn them, the hairstyles of the matrons resembled manes.

Lydia and Kitty appeared to be drunk, flirting with soldiers.

“That will do extremely well, you have delighted us long enough,” the caption said.

“I remember my father saying that,” she said. “But not to Kitty and Lydia.”

“I kept expecting him to intervene,” he said. “But he never did. He just sat there, observed everything, and did nothing.”

She had often cringed because of the improprieties of her family. Her mother had a tendency to speak all her thoughts aloud with no regard to who was listening, and Elizabeth had attempted to rein in her youngest sisters, usually to no avail. But seen through an outsider’s eyes, the indifference of her father seemed the worst offence.

There was a picture of Mr. Bingley, happy as a lark. The text said, “Five thousand a year! He will do so well for my Jane!”

“What a calculating delight we appear to be!”

“Well, your mother’s discourse does have elements of the mercenary in it,” Mr. Darcy said. “But in all fairness, your youngest sisters appear quite willing to associate with even the poorest of officers.”

There was a hasty sketch of Mrs. Long and Sir William Lucas. Apparently one of them had said that “those girls” were a disgrace, and the other had responded that one had to make allowances for the excesses of youth.

There was Lady Lucas with Charlotte: “If that foolish girl says no, you could be the next mistress of Longbourn.”

There was Lydia with her friend Harriet, ogling at the officers. “Think of the fun we could have in Brighton with the regiment!”

“Did she go to Brighton?” he asked.

“Mrs. Forster invited her but Lydia could not leave because of Jane’s wedding,” Elizabeth said.

“Good,” he said. “It is so easy for a young girl with a careless chaperone to end up in some mischief.”

There was Elizabeth again, looking dismayed.

“It is the face you made when I asked you to dance,” he said. “You looked the same way when you danced with Mr. Collins.

There was Mr. Collins, somehow managing to look smug and servile, self-satisfied and slavish at the same time.

“I could not bear to write any of it down but he congratulated me for being related to his most excellent patroness, and himself for his future happiness with you,” Mr. Darcy said. “He told me that my aunt would undoubtedly adore and appreciate you, and if she did not he would expect you to adjust, according to all of her specifications.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Poor Charlotte!”

“I could not believe that you had any affection for such a man but I thought that if you had decided to marry him for Longbourn and had to live there with him it would serve you right.”

“How cruel you are!”

“That is when I decided to cut my losses and leave Hertfordshire as soon as it could be arranged.”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 8

“So, then you left.”

“So, then I left.”

Elizabeth slammed the sketchbook shut and pushed it aside with more force than necessary, and the towers of seen and unseen books she had constructed fell apart.

“And you took Mr. Bingley with you,” she said. “Miss Bingley wrote that he was not coming back and it nearly broke Jane’s heart.”

Mr. Darcy took a moment to arrange the sketchbooks on the table in two neat piles, one higher than the other. Elizabeth was not sure but she thought that the books were in chronological order again.

“Bingley was going to London anyway but he would have come back if the rest of us had not followed him. He was quite smitten with your sister but Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst insisted that her heart was not affected. But that being without a dowry she would marry him anyway for mercenary reasons because he would be the best she could do, with her lack of other prospects.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I had heard Mrs. Bennet crowing about Jane’s rich conquest several times at the ball, that the neighbourhood already had expectations, and that if he was at all undecided when he returned to Hertfordshire Mrs. Bennet might make sure the matter would very soon be decided for him.”

“That is harsh and unfair,” Elizabeth said. “For all her faults, my mother has never forced a gentleman to marry any of her daughters.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Thus we are all spinsters in the making save Jane.”

“That is not true,” he said.

“Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were quite right. Without dowries we have no great prospects and cannot expect to marry well.”

“Well, that hurt,” he said. “I may not be a great matrimonial prize but I am not a troll from under the bridge.”

She laughed in surprise. It seemed that Mr. Darcy had a dry sense of humour and a lovely lop-sided smile that she had largely missed during their initial encounters.

But the smile disappeared as soon as it appeared. None of this was a laughing matter to Mr. Darcy.

“If you end up a spinster it will be by your own choice,” he said seriously. “I have made you a counteroffer that would prevent such outcome, and your dowry does not enter into it at all.”

“Do you not think we ought to address the obvious financial disparity between us some time?”

“I have decided that it is irrelevant to me,” he said. “I have enough to support you and any children that we might be blessed with. And Bingley and I would be easily able to lease a home for your mother and sisters if they should ever find themselves in straitened circumstances.”

“Thank you,” she said faintly.

"Not that I would wish you to marry me for such a reason,” he said. “But I will take what I can get.”

“It means a lot to know that you would be willing to help them.”

“Of course, they are your family,” he said. “And they would become mine as well.”

“But if I was just looking for financial security I would be Mrs. Collins by now,” she said.

“I thank my lucky stars every day that you are not.”

“However, I am sure that your family expects you to marry someone richer and better connected than me.”

“They did, and I could have,” he said. “I did not.”

There was nothing she could say to that, so she picked up a sketchbook again. Most of the covers of recent ones looked exactly the same to her and she was not sure how he could tell them apart but he had arranged them so the smaller pile on the right held all the books she had not looked at yet.

There were several portraits of Georgiana Darcy who appeared to be a little happier, and those of her companion, drawn as if Mr. Darcy had been looking for signs of deception in her.

“She seems perfectly respectable to me,” Elizabeth said. “As far as I can tell from the pictures.”

“She is, I think,” he said. “It is just difficult to trust her completely without reservations after what happened with the previous companion.”

“Understandable,” she said.

“I am usually wary with new people but it gets easier once I have had time to study them and learn what their expressions look like.”

“I dare say you must know mine by now.”

“Would that I would know them even better,” he said. “If you let me.”

He had drawn several portraits of Mr. Bingley, looking pensive, distracted, or sad.

“He was not his usual self at the time?”

“No,” he said.

In London, Mr. Darcy had thrown himself into business affairs and high society with a vengeance.

“Trying to keep busy,” he said.

He had visited a horse auction, taken notes of the animals and ruled out a few because the owner seemed shifty.

He had planned to order a new carriage, and listed his options. He had drawn incredibly detailed models and recorded all the specifications. “The carriage maker: Thompson. Interior details: Blue fabric and cherrywood. Drawn by four horses.”

“I am sorry but I think you are lying,” Elizabeth said. “Look at all the precise details. There is no way that horses could have drawn this.”

He had to process that for a moment before he understood and burst into startled laughter.

He had drawn potential investments, attorneys, and his butler in London who was of an age to retire but as yet unwilling to do so. He had sketched musical soirees, balls, the bookshop owner, and the opera.

But the painting in the attorney’s office looked like Elizabeth might look at seventy, and in all the events, he had drawn an empty chair somewhere. One of the sketches was just the chair, and the caption said, “She was not there.”

“I still do not understand,” she said. “I can see you thought of me a lot. But it was you who decided to leave, you who decided not to pursue me. I had no idea, because you chose not to tell me. Why did you change your mind?”

“My aunt wrote to me that her rector had married in Hertfordshire, and I thought it was you,” he said. “When I arrived at Rosings I was bracing myself so I could bear seeing you as that sycophant’s wife. Mr. Collins only spoke of dear Mrs. Collins, and you may imagine my confusion when my cousin and I came to the parsonage and he introduced the former Miss Lucas as Mrs. Collins and you were still Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“You did not say much that day,” she said.

“I had a speech memorized,” he said. “It was a really nice speech, you would have been proud of me. I was to congratulate you, to wish you all the happiness that family can bring, and to tell you that I knew you would be an asset to his parishioners. But once it was not you I was too disoriented to know which parts I could use to congratulate the real Mrs. Collins and still make sense. Thankfully my cousin was there to say all the normal things.”

“I recall it was a rather strange visit,” she said. “Did you draw it?”

“No, I went riding and missed dinner.” He exhaled. “My aunt was not pleased with me.”

“But we did not see you much at the parsonage afterwards.”

“I had to clear my head first.” He shook himself as if dispelling a cloud of dust. “I had found out where you liked to walk in the mornings so if you had stayed longer I probably would have attempted to join you on your promenades.”

“Would you have said anything to me?”

He smiled ruefully. “I suppose we will never know now.”

“Initially I was planning to stay longer,” Elizabeth said. “But my mother wanted my help with the wedding arrangements.”

“Oh, yes, Bingley and your sister got married,” he said. “I am sorry I missed the wedding, I was needed at Pemberley.”

“Do you know how it came about?” she asked. “Jane said they met accidentally in the park near the Gardiner home. But it seems like a very odd place for Mr. Bingley to randomly loiter in. It is not near where he lives in London.”

“Coincidences do happen occasionally,” he offered. But it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Yes, he might have had some business, or some acquaintance in the area,” Elizabeth said. “But he does not, so Jane thinks it was fate. Was it?”

“Well, actually…” Mr. Darcy quieted.

“Well, actually, what?” Elizabeth looked at him sternly. “You cannot leave it at that, I can see you know something.”

“I know something but Bingley does not want Jane to know.”

“I am not Jane. Tell me.”

“It is true she met him accidentally,” Mr. Darcy said. “But Bingley did not. He had spent three days in the park hoping for just that to happen. He says some of the mothers and nursemaids who brought children there were starting to eye him very suspiciously.“

“Why? Why did he not just knock on the door and visit?”

“I am afraid that it was my fault,” Mr. Darcy said. “I had spoken of my study of schooled expressions and spontaneous ones, and he thought he would be more likely to catch an unguarded one if he was not announced as a visitor.”

“I do not understand,” she said. “How did you come to have such a discussion?”

“Bingley had been rather forlorn for months.”

“Had he...?”

“He missed your sister, and wondered if he had made a mistake leaving Hertfordshire without speaking to her.”

“Oh, dear me, did I do the right thing, jilting the girl everyone thought I was courting?” she scoffed. “Yes, I can see how a gentleman might be confused.”

“Right, but he had been led to believe that your sister did not particularly desire to be courted by him,” he said. “His sisters claimed to have her confidence.”

“Then what?”

“He came to my house one day and caught me painting Georgiana. And he remembered the sketch of Wickham that we showed in the shops in Meryton.”

“Yes…?”

“So he thought that Georgiana's likeness was excellent and said he had not known I was so good with faces. I said I pay a lot of attention to expressions because it can be a clue to what they are really thinking. Then he started talking about your sister, and how he had thought he had seen love in her smile, and whether he could have been so mistaken.”

“And what did you say?”

“That fortune hunters and mercenary charmers smile a lot too but if we happen to come across them unexpectedly we might perceive the momentary switch between an honest reaction and a schooled attitude.”

“Interesting.“

“He asked me if I had seen Miss Bennet while they were talking or dancing at the ball, and whether I could draw her for him.”

“You had several sketches of Jane.”

“Yes but I could not show that book to anyone but you, so I started a new sketch, on a loose leaf.”

“He started speaking of returning to Hertfordshire to see for himself. That he should go to Longbourn before his arrival was common knowledge in the village. I said his sisters told me they visited Miss Bennet in Gracechurch Street, and he was both happy that his coachman would know the address and angry at me for not telling him before.”

“You argued?”

“It was more that he railed at me and vowed never to speak to me again.”

“Oh!”

“By then I had finished my sketch, and whatever he saw in her expression seemed to make him happy because he clapped me on the back, gave me a vigorous handshake in both of his and was off like a shot.”

“I guess we know what followed,” she said. “Has he broken his vow not to speak with you again?”

“Technically no,” he said. “We have exchanged several letters and I believe he has forgiven me but I have not seen him since. I left for Kent and then he was in Hertfordshire, and I had to go to Derbyshire. Earlier in the year we had planned that he should visit Pemberley around this time of the summer but obviously his schedule changed due to his wedding and honeymoon.”

“Yes, their honeymoon…” Elizabeth was thoughtful. “I was all set to be angry at you for convincing him that Jane was a fortune hunter. But I suppose there is no point now. Jane is finally happy, and it was mostly his own fault for believing you and his scheming sisters anyway.”

“Bingley seems over the moon now, so it ended well for him too.”

“Yes, after some detours.”

“Exactly,” he said, while riffling through a small notebook.

Elizabeth took a look at it but the notebook was blank.

“I took some detours too,” he said after a while. “But I have chosen a path now, and I am hoping to get a similar happy outcome.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“I know,” he said. “But what if I could?”

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH PART 9

The next book she looked at was dated at Rosings, after Elizabeth had left Kent.

“I must warn you that it gets more speculative from now on,” he explained. “These are not always scenes that actually happened, I was just trying to make sense of my feelings and visualising alternative outcomes. If things happened the way I drew them, how would I feel?”

They were mostly watercolour with few captions but Elizabeth felt like the lights and shadows and colour choices told stories of their own.

There was Mr. Darcy walking away from Longbourn on a cloudy, grey day, a lonely, desolate path in front of him.

There was Mr. Darcy in the bluebell grove at Rosings. He was on one knee in front of Elizabeth. It would have been a lovely, romantic, ethereal painting, if only Elizabeth had not had such a terribly distorted expression of horror on her face.

There was another proposal scene in which he was looking at her lovingly. But she remained cold to him, only entranced by the enormous diamond ring that he was putting on her finger.

There was a sweet picture of the two of them in Pemberley, looking fifty years older, holding hands and surrounded by excited grandchildren. The room was decorated like Christmas, and everyone was happy.

Another Christmas scene looked like Netherfield. The Bingleys were busy with their children. Elizabeth was holding a baby. Mr. Darcy stared awkwardly at the floor, alone on the other side of the room.

The next scene was a crowded, lavish ballroom, presumably in London. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy stood on the left, seemingly embarrassed. In the middle of the scene, Mrs. Bennet was holding forth, gesturing wildly. Lydia and Kitty were being coquettish at a foppish gentleman. Mary was on the far right side and looked like a character in one of those cartoons in which you had to find the object that did not belong.

“I want you to know that if you agreed to marry me I would always treat your family with respect,” he said. “But I do think that your sisters would benefit from some time with an experienced companion, like Mrs. Annesley.”

“I cannot disagree,” she said.

“It is not too late to learn more decorum,” he said. “Some of those rules have been quite helpful for me over the years. Strangers’ behaviour is easier to predict when they follow the same rulebook.”

There was Mr. Darcy marrying someone very rich, very stylish, and very faceless. Nobody in the crowd behaved inappropriately or stood out in any way, if not for the fact that everyone was so blank and dull. He was the only one who was drawn with a face, but even he looked frozen and stoic, as if he was purposefully devoid of all expression.

“These people are like unpainted nutcrackers,” she said.

“I did not intend it that way,” he said. “But you are right.”

There was another wedding scene, with Mr. Darcy and Anne De Bourgh as the couple plighting their troth. But their clothes were in tatters, there was a ghost in the ceiling, and the only ones who looked happy were Lady Catherine De Bourgh and Mr. Collins who appeared to be dead.

Then there was a beautiful picture of Elizabeth walking down the aisle, radiant and glowing, ecstatic to be marrying the love of her life. The man waiting for her at the altar was shown from the back and his face was not visible. But he was wearing an officer’s uniform.

Elizabeth looked at Mr. Darcy questioningly.

“I was asking myself what the worst case scenarios would look like,” he explained. “The ones I came up with both involved you marrying a soldier. Either you would marry my cousin and I would see you happy all the time. Or you would marry Wickham and be absolutely miserable if I ever saw you at all.”

“That would be worse than being wed by a corpse?”

“Objectively speaking,” he said, “yes.”

She considered the picture for a moment. “May I caption this?”

Mr. Darcy was surprised by the request but agreed without demur and gave Elizabeth a pencil.

In the corner, in small letters, she wrote, “Thank you but no thank you. EB.”

He searched her gaze.

“Thank you for making me so beautiful,” she said. “But neither of them has asked me, and if they did I would categorically refuse to marry either of them just to suit your morbid imagination. I am too poor for Mr. Wickham’s tastes, and while I am sure your cousin is a fine man I have no ambition to marry a stranger.”

“He is indeed a fine man and my closest confidante.”

“I must take your word for it, for I have spent more time with your sketchbooks than I ever spent with him.”

Mr. Darcy tilted his head and looked at her speculatively.

“You would not say we are strangers now, would you?”

“No, I dare say I could not,” she said. “It is not every day that people allow one to see the inside of their minds like this.”

In the next picture, an older Mr. Darcy was alone in the picture gallery at Pemberley, looking worn, tired, and slightly mad. All the paintings of his family were gone, and the walls were full of Elizabeth.

“Did you get rid of the Gainsborough too?”

“I might as well sell it to the museum at Louvre. My life goal is to replace all art with pictures of you,” he said, only half joking.

“Were my portraits in the gallery a part of this project?” she asked.

“I suppose it was due to a little magical thinking on my part,” he said. “I put you up as an experiment, to see how it would feel to see you amidst all those revered ancestors. And it felt like you belonged in Pemberley, and it made me feel like I was one step closer to bringing you home for real.”

“I see I have passed a test,” she said. “None of the long-dead Darcys staged a revolt seeing me up there.”

“I know it was an absurd thing to do, and I am sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“It was a little strange, to be sure."

“But on the bright side, it worked,” he said. “You came, you saw them, and you stayed, even if it was just to interrogate me.”

"There could not be a single soul who was able to just walk away from such a sight without an explanation."

When Elizabeth was about to turn the page again, he touched her hand and halted her.

“If you are going to be mad at me, please do not look any further.”

“After such an introduction, I have no option but to see it all the way through,” she said, and turned the page to a startlingly intimate scene.

It was the two of them hiding in the hedgerows, kissing. This was not a chaste peck, he had painted two passionate lovers who were desperate to get closer, to touch more, to merge their breaths and forget everything else.

She looked at the picture for a long time, taking a figurative leaf out of his book and trying to visualise how she would feel if that was their reality.

“It gets worse,” he finally said, unable to bear her silence. “But you understand now why I could not show these books to your relations.”

“We certainly kiss like we mean it,” she said.

The next page was a bedroom scene. His bedroom, probably, for the furniture looked masculine. They were tangled in the sheets but clearly unclothed. Her hair was unbound and she was touching him everywhere, he was touching her everywhere, and they seemed frantic to get closer, but also so very safe and comfortable with each other.

The next portrait was just her face, her hair spread on the pillow, tired and dishevelled but oh, so happy and fulfilled. There was a tiny newborn on her breast, swaddled and sleepy, holding on to a finger, probably Darcy’s.

“You did not include pictures of yourself in most of the earlier sketchbooks.”

“Those books were more about me observing the life around me,” he said. “This book is about the life I want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“Everything,” he said. “You and me, on the same page.”

“I see.”

She contemplated the pictures for a long time. He was getting nervous, but he waited patiently, studying her every movement, every shadow on her face, every flicker of emotion she showed.

Finally she spoke. “Go and be civil to the Gardiners for a moment, please. They are my favourite relatives, and I need some time alone while I visualise something.”

He exhaled loudly.

She could tell that he would have liked to press her for answers, but all he said was, “All right, take all the time you need.”

*#*#*
Mr. Darcy invited the Gardiners to a private parlour for refreshments.

“What have you done to Elizabeth?” Mr. Gardiner asked.

“Overwhelmed her with visuals, I dare say,” Mr. Darcy said. “She has waded through what amounts to an illustrated autobiography listing every thought I have ever had, including pictures of my pets and even my grandchildren.”

“Ooh, you have hidden depths, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Gardiner said, her eyes twinkling. “At first sight, I did not take you for a proud grandparent, but you may be one of those who carries a miniature of their grandbabies in a locket or a pocket watch and insists on showing everyone.”

“I could be so much worse than that,” Mr. Darcy said. “I could start painting all my dinners and asking you to like them.”

“The still life is a popular style,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

“Personally I cannot see the appeal of painting apples and vases,” Mr. Darcy said. "People are always more fascinating."

“I would prefer to skip the artistic review and ask you to give us a brief summary of your acquaintance with Elizabeth,” Mr. Gardiner said. “She seemed to think all this was rather unexpected.”

“I am afraid it is my fault entirely,” Mr. Darcy said. “I noticed her straight away but I did not immediately know what to do about it, so I did nothing, and she was in the dark about my struggle.”

“I do not know if I like the thought of courtship being such a struggle,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“I certainly could have made things a lot easier for myself,” said Mr. Darcy. “But I have never been good at figuring out emotions without a lot of initial dithering.”

“I understand you left Hertfordshire with Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said. “We both had some concerns, some of which were later proven to be unfounded. Or irrelevant, considering the stakes.”

“Concerns?” Mr. Gardiner said. “Such as an entailed estate and relations in trade?”

“Miss Elizabeth tells me that you are her favourite relatives and I trust her judgment,” Mr. Darcy said. “As for the entailment, it might be a concern if I was in financial trouble. But Pemberley is doing all right, with or without money from my bride’s family.”

“So what changed then?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “You left, and only Mr. Bingley came back, yet here we are, talking about this.”

“I had thought I would forget her in time but when I saw her again in Kent I knew I had not. And with my friend married to her sister, I would get more reminders of her. I had been all over London, but nobody compared to her. So I had to decide if any of my remaining concerns held any weight, and the paintings in the gallery were part of the balance sheet, so to speak.”

“So you are saying you wanted to forget her but could not,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“Guilty as charged,” Mr. Darcy said. “I did not have the good sense to immediately understand how important she had become to me.”

“What were your remaining concerns and what happened to them?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Certain of her family members behave with exuberance that I find hard to adjust to,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Frankly, I cannot fault you there,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “As I have often thought a bit more decorum would not go amiss.”

“Do you think Mr. Bennet would agree to hire a companion for the younger girls?” Mr. Darcy asked. “I could help with the expense. Provided that…”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Gardiner said. “If you tell him it would make his house quieter. Were you worried about anything else?”

“My family,” Mr. Darcy said. “They have been expecting me to marry someone with more fortune and connections, so I had concerns that it might affect their attitudes toward my bride negatively.”

“And how did you resolve that?” Mr. Gardiner demanded.

“One of my aunts might be loud and unpleasant,” Mr. Darcy said. “That is probably unavoidable, unless I marry the one person that she thinks I ought to marry, which I am never going to do. But my aunt does not often leave her estate, and I may be an undutiful nephew but I find that I do not really care about her distress. She can talk but there is no real harm that she can do.”

“What about your other relatives?”

“I have not asked them but I would like to think that my sister and the dearest of my cousins would be happy for me if I found happiness.”

“If they love you they would,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

“Neither love nor happiness feature much in my uncle’s wishes for me. First and foremost he wants me to marry someone whose connections can help him politically. But I travelled to Matlock last week to talk about the matter, and I secured his wife’s promise to aid my wife in London society as much as she could. And once my uncle was finally made to understand that I would not cooperate with his dynastic plans he reluctantly promised his show of solidarity.”

“Good,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“It is probably too much to ask to expect him to be happy about it,” Mr. Darcy said. “But he will not make trouble for me or my wife.”

“Should you get married,” Mr. Gardiner reminded him.

“Should I be so lucky to get her to agree, yes.”

“And is that all?” Mr. Gardiner asked. “Did you have any other concerns?”

“I think we have covered the principal issues,” Mr. Darcy said. “Apart from the most important one.”

“Which was?”

“I did not believe Miss Elizabeth liked me much,” Mr. Darcy said. “But I am hoping to change that state of affairs.”

“I think you have made a great start,” said Mrs. Gardiner. "She seemed very pensive last night."

“But where is Elizabeth?” Mr. Gardiner asked. “You seem to have misplaced her.”

“She is still in my study. She said she wanted some time to think by herself.”

“Was she upset?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Darcy said. “She did not say.”

“Well, did she look upset?” Mr. Gardiner asked impatiently.

“I do not know,” Mr. Darcy said.

He thought for a minute, grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil (there seemed to be a stash of those in nearly every room at Pemberley), and did a quick sketch. “She looked like this, more or less.”

The Gardiners studied the drawing for a moment.

“Well,” Mrs. Gardiner said, “if that is at all accurate, I dare say you have reason to be cautiously optimistic.”

“Young man,” Mr. Gardiner said severely.

“Yes, sir?” Mr. Darcy said, startled by his tone.

“Welcome to the family!”

*#*#*

Elizabeth had returned to the earlier sketchbooks, flipping through them quickly, trying to absorb a more complete sense of who Mr. Darcy was as a person and how he had become that way. In a way, she thought she now knew him better than some of the people she had known her entire life. His behaviour was aloof in social situations, but he was more observant than she had given him credit for, and even if some of his character studies were harsh and biting, it was not as if he was usually wrong. He had revealed to her his vulnerable side, his self-doubts, fears and hesitancy. But she had also seen him as a competent, trustworthy, hard-working sort of person, capable of taking charge, never shirking from his responsibilities.

The intimate portraits were unsettling but intriguing, and his feelings for her appeared to be inarguably ardent –

Somebody came in without knocking, and startled, she slammed the sketchbook shut.

It was an older man carrying a decanter. “Please do not worry, I did not see anything, and even if I did, I am well compensated for my discretion,” he reassured her. “I am sorry for disturbing you, Miss Bennet, I saw Mr. Darcy going in the parlour and I thought this room was empty.”

She noticed he knew her name, and when he came closer to the light from the window, she recognised him from having seen him at Netherfield. She had taken him for one of Bingley’s servants. But apparently she was wrong.

“It’s Fowler, ma’am,” he said. “I am Mr. Darcy’s valet.”

“I can see you are very good at whatever you do,” she said. Mr. Darcy was an attractive man, and he was always very neatly turned out, the epitome of great taste, no doubt thanks to Mr. Fowler’s efforts.

“I thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I pray you will not take this amiss but I am right glad to see you at Pemberley, and I hope it means you have finally decided to put the master out of his misery, ma’am.”

“His misery?”

“Ever since Hertfordshire, he has been fretting something fierce, ma’am. Staying up at all hours to paint, and forgetting how to sleep, ma’am.”

“I see,” Elizabeth murmured.

She was fiddling with the empty notebook and flipped through it once, then the other way around.

“Have you been in his service for long?”

“I was his father’s valet for five and twenty years,” he said.

“So you have known Mr. Darcy since he was a child.”

“Yes,” he said. “Once he drew me a cartoon of Robinson Crusoe, wild and unkempt on the island, and after he was attacked by a good valet.”

“I can imagine there was quite a difference.”

“He is the best of masters, and we all wish him happiness, ma’am.”

“I must see what I can do about it.”

*#*#*

The Gardiners had had their tea and Mr. Darcy was about to order some for Elizabeth, but she came in the room before he could manage it.

“Thank you but Mr. Fowler already brought me some,” she said.

“My valet,” Mr. Darcy told Mr. Gardiner. “He is not one to spread tales.”

“And it is not that scandalous for a young woman to drink tea alone, is it?” Elizabeth said.

“It was a little unconventional for you to do so in Mr. Darcy’s private study,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Although if he does not care, I do not see why anyone else should.”

“I no longer have any secrets from Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Or Mr. Fowler, for that matter,” Elizabeth said. “Do not worry, your valet put in a good word for you.”

“I am grateful although I must note that I did not ask him to,” he said.

“Now, Elizabeth, were your ponderings fruitful?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “Do you have some answers for this young man? Your reflections took quite a long time, and he has scarcely been able to sit down for his nerves.”

“I have sat through four and fifty books of your visualisations, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “The least you can do is to allow me to show you one. A measly little thing, really.”

“Oh, did you draw something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Elizabeth said. “I am no great artist but I have done this.”

She handed Mr. Darcy the small notebook. He opened it and saw that the pages were no longer empty. She had drawn two stick figures on each page. One was wearing a top hat, another had a triangular skirt on, and the third thing on the page was an odd shape.

“We never had a governess or any other instruction in the art of drawing but I have some experience entertaining my young cousins so I have made a few of these over the years,” Elizabeth said.

“But what does it mean?”

“That one is you,” she explained unnecessarily, pointing at the stick figures. “And this is me.”

“She is wearing no bonnet,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “So of course it is you.”

“Yes, but I do not understand,” Mr. Darcy said.

“You are looking at it wrong,” Elizabeth said. “It is a flip book.”

She took it and showed him how to flip through the pages quickly. That way, the stick figures seemed to move. At first they stood in opposite corners and there was a strange smudge in the middle of the page. But the figures walked or glided jerkily towards the center of the page and ended up holding hands in front of the shape that had grown from an indistinct blob into a large heart.

“You have set a high standard with your sketchbooks and must think this is rather pitiful in terms of aesthetic merit, but at least I am trying, and that must count for something, does it not? This is quite abysmal compared to your efforts, and I am almost ashamed to show it to you, but it is only fair that you are forewarned that our children will not inherit any artistic skills from me. But my Gardiner cousins are always riveted by the moving pictures so perhaps there is some novelty value in even these substandard drawings.”

“Do you think artistic skills are inherited?” Mrs. Gardiner asked. “Perhaps you only need to practice, dear. If you had filled four and fifty sketchbooks, you might be a better artist too.”

“Possibly,” Elizabeth said. “What do you think, Mr. Darcy? Your aunt, Lady Catherine was a great proponent of diligent practice, and from what I saw earlier, the accuracy of your drawings certainly improved in time.”

“I think… Our children?” he asked.

“If we are so blessed,” she said.

A huge smile of happiness spread on his face, and one did not need to dedicate years to the diligent study of expressions in order to figure out that he had just been handed his heart's every desire, buried deep in a very subordinate clause.

Chapter Text

TO ADMIRE A GAINSBOROUGH - PART 10

THE EPILOGUE

Mr. Gardiner insisted on continuing their Derbyshire tour as planned, and Mr. Darcy followed them to Hertfordshire as soon as he could manage. After he had left detailed instructions for his steward and for the household staff he collected his sister and Mrs. Annesley who had been staying with the Matlocks, and brought them to Netherfield with him.

Getting Mr. Bennet’s consent to the engagement was a formality but although Mr. Darcy would have preferred a quick wedding, Mrs. Bennet's cooperation was harder to obtain. She insisted that Elizabeth had to be the prettiest bride in the kingdom. Mr. Darcy did not disagree with the principle but he and Mrs. Bennet had differing opinions regarding the amount of lace that would be required to accomplish the feat.

“You could come to me wearing an old flour sack and you would still be the prettiest bride in the kingdom,” he said to Elizabeth.

“And the itchiest,” she said.

Mrs. Bennet was overruled on the matter of lace, but Mr. Darcy never got to see his bride in a recycled flour sack. Elizabeth would be married wearing a lovely embroidered silky dream, of entirely her own choice.

During the engagement, Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley spent a lot of time at Longbourn, dropping subtle hints about how things were done in the earl’s house. Mrs. Bennet was very impressed and her desire to emulate a countess helped to achieve some changes in the Bennet household, as the women strived to modulate their tones and Mrs. Annesley and Miss Darcy provided a constant example of refined speech and restrained behaviour.

What Mrs. Annesley and Miss Darcy could not change was subdued by the Earl, who attended the wedding and had such regal bearing that not even Lydia dared to speak a careless word in his hearing.

After the wedding, Elizabeth and Darcy honeymooned at the seaside, and Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley stayed at Longbourn during that time. Mrs. Annesley continued to be a role model, and Miss Darcy picked up some carefree sisterly cheer that might have done her some good.

After the honeymoon, the newlyweds went to London. Elizabeth familiarised herself with the Darcy house and the servants, and spent a not inconsiderable amount of time at the modiste. They visited museums, galleries, and bookshops and attended many society events, and with Elizabeth by his side, Darcy rarely felt the need to dissect every interaction in pictorial form afterward.

From London, they went to Netherfield and spent a few weeks with Jane and Bingley before going back to Derbyshire.

The day they arrived, they were very tired and retired into their chambers immediately. But Mr. Darcy's bed was spacious and extremely comfortable, and they woke up feeling refreshed.

When they finally thought it a good time to get out of bed Darcy asked her what she wanted to do first.

“I need to meet the servants, I suppose,” she said. “But that can wait, there is something more urgent to do first.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Do you know that the Gardiners and I came to Pemberley very particularly to visit your gallery and to admire the Gainsborough? But here we are. We have been married for several months, I have been drowning in artworks of all persuasions, yet I still haven't seen your Gainsborough.”

“I’ll show you my Gainsborough any time you like!” he said, and dove under the covers.

It still took an hour before the master and mistress of Pemberley emerged from the bedroom to survey their domain.

When they walked in the gallery, Elizabeth saw that there were many new paintings. Now that Darcy was married he had dared to hang some of his more recognisable portraits of her in the gallery.

And there were portraits of her family.

“Some of these are Georgiana's work for real this time,” Darcy said. “Or Mrs. Annesley’s. She says that while people are forced to sit still for a portrait it is an excellent time for educational conversations.”

“Oh, I love them,” Elizabeth said. “But I will not be sidetracked. Show me the Gainsborough, now, before we get distracted again.”

There it was, at the end of the gallery.

Elizabeth studied it quietly. “Well, it is certainly something,” she finally said.

“It is,” he said.

“You are a good husband, you know,” she said. “Always so ready to agree with me.”

“I am,” he said. “But can you be a little more specific and tell me what kind of something you think it is? So I know what I am agreeing with.”

“We are safely married, right?”

“Right,” he said.

“The banns were read, the register was signed, the ceremony was witnessed by multiple relatives on both sides, no one objected, the papers were notified, and you have introduced me as your wife to most if not all your acquaintances, right?”

“Even to a few people that I would not care to know,” he said.

“We have lived together as husband and wife, you have shared your worldly goods with me, and the marriage has been consummated in the usual way, right?”

“Usual? I would not know how other people do it,” he said. “But I can confirm it has certainly been consummated in a most pleasurable and enthusiastic manner.”

“So there is little danger that the marriage will be annulled at this stage.”

“Not a chance!” He grabbed her in a bear hug. “You are mine and I am not letting go.”

“So I am probably safe now, and you cannot cast me off,” she said. “Even if I tell you that I think it is hideous.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “All right, let’s have it.”

“Well, just look at her,” she said. “Look at her face, look at her posture.”

“Right,” he said.

“Look at that dress.”

“It is pretty impossible to look at anything else.”

“She is so tired of everything. She is wearing the most uncomfortable skirt of all time, she can’t even sit down and rest properly because her clothes get in the way, and to top it all there is some annoying man who will not stop speaking to her.”

“She does look very uncomfortable,” Darcy said.

“I am sorry but I think your portraits are better,” she said. “You never painted me wearing a window frame.”

“When I was a child I thought that he is asking her if she knows anything about the stolen Rembrandt,” he said.

“Stolen Rembrandt?”

“Yes,” he said. “You see, there is a house behind those trees. Somebody stole a priceless painting off the wall, in the middle of the day. It is not so easy to walk away hiding a framed painting but somebody was able to do so.”

“And you think she knows where it is.”

“Just look at her dress,” he said. “She knows exactly where it is.”

Mr. Darcy did not cast his wife off for failing to admire the Gainsborough. Instead he surprised her with a wedding gift.

“Another one? We have been married for months, and you have already given me several wedding gifts.”

“Yes but this one took some time to create.”

It was a sketchbook, its cover decorated with a gilded wedding ring motif.

“It is our wedding album,” he said.

Inside, there were several lovely portraits of Elizabeth in her wedding finery. She was walking down the aisle, facing her bridegroom at the altar, reciting her vows, signing the register, greeting the well-wishers after the ceremony. And Elizabeth could see that he thought she was the most beautiful bride in the kingdom.

A few of the pictures were captioned with quotes from Shakespeare’s sonnets.

“I was feeling brave,” he said. “I thought our love is strong enough to withstand a sonnet or two now. But if you disagree I can paint over them.”

“Don't you dare, Fitzwilliam Darcy!”

Deviating from his former habits, Mr. Darcy had included himself in some of the portraits. There was a picture of their first married kiss, and a painting of the two of them staring in each other’s eyes, a moment before stepping out on the church steps to be congratulated by all.

Each picture was lovelier than the previous one, all of them suffused with a sense of incandescent happiness.

“I could not watch myself,” he said. “But for once I knew exactly how I felt.”

Portraits of the wedding guests and scenes from the wedding breakfast were also included in the album.

The bride’s proud parents were portrayed together, captioned, “God has been very good to us. Even our little hoyden Elizabeth has managed to marry! Who would have thought!”

Elizabeth slapped her husband in mock dismay. “I am sure they did not say that.”

“Would I lie to you?” He pretended to be injured, and his wife kissed him better.

Mrs. Bennet was hugging Elizabeth, and crying. “You must learn all his favourite dishes, and never go to bed angry. And if you give me a grandchild you must visit very often!”

Then she was hugging Darcy. “Oh, goodness, you are so very tall! You must make sure that my Lizzy is well! Derbyshire is so far away! And it gets so cold in the winter. But you are good for her, and I am sure she will be taken care of, and you must call me mama!”

Mr. Bennet was embracing Elizabeth. “You will be such a grand lady, and he is a good man, despite being so rich and responsible. But please do not forget your papa.”

To Darcy, Mr. Bennet said, “I won’t deny that I am a little upset at you for taking my Elizabeth away. But if you did not, she would be devastated.”

Jane was pictured full of smiles, hugging Darcy. “Welcome to the family! You are my new favourite brother! Lately Lizzy can’t speak of anything but you.”

Bingley was next up with the hugs. “You were already part of my family, old man, but now you are Jane’s too. You had better take good care of her sister, or else!”

Jane embraced Elizabeth too. “I will miss you so much, you must write very often! I can see he loves you to distraction, and you will be cherished.”

“What have you done with Darcy? You married some fellow who looks just like my stoic friend, but is grinning like a fool!" Bingley took a brotherly right to congratulate Elizabeth with a hearty hug as well. "Would you look at that smile on Darcy’s face! I foresee a lot of smiles in your future."

Instead of hugs, Mary offered a suitable Bible verse and a prim: “Congratulations, I hope you will be as happy as you both deserve.”

Elizabeth took her eyes off the book for a moment. “You, my love, deserve all the happiness,” she said, and kissed him for effect.

“I think I have already received my rightful share and then some,” he said. “I am very willing to share the excess with you.”

In the next picture, the newlyweds were holding hands and Elizabeth was murmuring something in his ear. Kitty was pictured looking at them dubiously. “I did not understand why Lizzy chose him - but they seem to be doing all right.”

Mr. Gardiner was the voice of reason, as ever. “Lizzy has married a good, trustworthy man, and she will be a great mistress of Pemberley and a very happy woman.”

Kitty was with Maria Lucas. “People speak of Pemberley with such awe, like it is some sort of a fairyland! But I am sure it is just a house!”

“I have seen Pemberley and trust me, you all would wish to be invited some day,” said Mrs. Annesley.

Lydia’s transformation was not quite complete for even in sketch form, she sounded a little whiny. “Harriet sent me another letter to invite me to Brighton but Lizzy had to get married, and now I will never see Harriet or the officers again!”

Miss Darcy was pictured saying, “I dare say Lizzy and my brother could introduce you to many gentlemen in the first circles, but I suppose it would be rather romantic to give up the life of comfort to follow the drum with the love of your life.”

“It has to be true love if you are cooking your husband’s dinner on the campfire in front of the tent,“ said Mrs. Annesley.

“Officers’ wives have to do chores?” Lydia said, horrified.

Mrs. Gardiner had a more pressing point of view. “Lydia, Mr. Darcy has a great eye for colour. Now that he is your brother, ask him what he thinks of that shade of pink with your hair!”

Mr. and Mrs. Philips were somewhat surprised. “I never in a million years could have predicted this. They did not look like lovers last autumn. But they say that still waters run deep, and they certainly look like lovers now.”

“They should have a bit of decorum!”

“They should have a private room!”

The next pages were the housekeeper from Pemberley. “We are slightly acquainted, she said!” Mrs. Reynolds was clearly pictured in the middle of a scoff. “I take some of the credit, you know. I tried very hard to delay her gallery tour so the master had time to get home. I had to make up so many fictitious anecdotes about the portraits! I hope that it will not constitute a stain on my immortal soul.”

Lady Lucas was among the guests too. “I did not think any of the Bennets could do so well for herself, but there is no accounting for tastes, and that Mr. Darcy always did seem a little odd after all.”

Sir William Lucas bravely disagreed. “Miss Elizabeth is a sweet girl, and a blind man could see last autumn that Mr. Darcy never had any eyes for anyone other than her. I knew he was dying to dance with her at Lucas Lodge, and at the Netherfield ball they were by far the prettiest couple!”

Charlotte Collins was chuckling to herself. “Eliza looks so happy! When this all started he said she was not handsome enough to tempt him and she promised never to dance with him! So I dare say this is the only possible ending, the only rightful way to conclude their story.”

Mr. Collins was the guest who found the most peace of mind in witnessing the marriage. “Now I can finally understand why she refused my suit. Why, I never knew that she had a tendre on another man!”

Mr. Fowler was content. “The shine on those shoes is perfection, if I say so myself. The master could see his own reflection in them, if he looked down. Not that he can keep his eyes off his new wife! This marriage is the best thing that has happened to the master in years. When I saw him painting her at Netherfield I knew exactly how it would be.”

Fowler’s daughter Molly had been promoted to Elizabeth’s lady’s maid, and she took great pride in her accomplishments. “I dare say one must search far and wide to see a lovelier bride! There’s not a hair wrong on her head, even after all that kissing! I just hope that she likes the new artwork in her bedrooms!”

If Caroline Bingley’s finery did not overshadow the bride’s loveliness it was not for lack of trying. “Of course, I am very close with the Darcys. I do believe I was the only one to predict this outcome. You may not know this, but the portraits of Mrs. Darcy’s family in the gallery at Pemberley were originally my idea.”

Mrs. Hurst looked very formal and prepared, as if she was reciting a memorized statement in front of the press. “As close as Charles and dear Mr. Darcy are, I have always known that he would be part of our family one day. We are very much looking forward to visiting Pemberley and seeing the changes that the new mistress has wrought.”

Mr. Hurst was next to her, bored as usual: “Yes, dear, but Pemberley is a bit far, isn’t it? There is no one of any note in Derbyshire, and in fact, I had set my mind upon going to Bournemouth. Caroline will not find a husband at Pemberley.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was pictured as his cheerful self: “Good job, old chap! She is much too pretty for you but I dare say you can make it work.”

To Elizabeth, he said, “I am very grateful that you took on the care and feeding of my poor wayward cousin. He gets broody but I bet you can snap him out of it, easy as a pie.”

“Have you any advice for me?” Darcy asked.

“If she sulks, just draw it out of her!”

The Colonel offered her a handshake, then grabbed her in a warm hug. “Darcy and I are like brothers, you know, so you are legally my sister now, whether you want it or not.”

The Colonel’s elder brother the Viscount clapped Darcy on the back. “Congratulations! I never thought I would see the day. Do you need any pointers for the wedding night?”

Darcy’s uncle was puzzled. “I don’t get it. I can see she is very pretty and cheerful, but that daft boy could have had an earl’s daughter!”

“Hush, Bertie, he can hear you,” his wife said. “Count yourself lucky, I know you were worried that he’d never marry at all.”

Lady Catherine De Bourgh had condescended to attend the wedding in the name of family unity but she would not go as far as to be happy about it: “Is she even English? In the Darcy house, he has a painting of her, riding into battle with a bunch of Scots. Astride!”

Miss Anne De Bourgh was philosophical: “I am so glad he is not marrying me. I bet he will want to draw her even when she has not had her hair done, so all I can say is, good luck, Mrs. Darcy!”

“When we met him at Pemberley it was plain to see that he was crazy about you,” Mrs. Gardiner said to Elizabeth. “But he is even more besotted now. Lizzy, you had better take care!”

“Yours will be a lovely marriage. Your husband has his quirks, but what man doesn't?” Mr. Gardiner told her. “Just help the poor boy out, and tell him what you want.”

Jane had some confidential advice to share with her sister. “Our mother will have told you never to go to bed angry. But I think you might give it a try sometime, for making up in bed can be great fun!”

Georgiana Darcy was ecstatic. “My brother is so much lighter when he is with you,” she told Elizabeth.

“Thank God! I am so happy!” she said to Darcy. “You are finally married, and Lizzy is so lovely, and so real! For a while in the spring I thought that you had an imaginary friend!”

There was another lovely portrait of Elizabeth leaving the wedding breakfast, getting the last greetings of all her family at once, and yet another of how she looked in the carriage.

“You did not draw the wedding night,” she said.

“I think I will be able to remember it without a sketch,” he said, smiling. “And if we forget we can always try again.”

She laughed.

“And here I thought that on our wedding day, you paid attention only to me,” she said. “But you must have noticed other things too, to draw all that.”

“In my defence,” he said, “you are in most of those sketches. Or they are talking about you.”

He wrapped his arms around her tenderly. “I do not care what anyone says, I love you and we are going to be so happy,”

The last page was blank but not for long. Mr. Darcy sketched it right there and then. It was a picture of the two of them at that moment, in the gallery at Pemberley, in front of the Gainsborough.

“That painting brought us together so I might have to admire it after all,” Elizabeth said.

“We would have been together, with or without it,” he said firmly.

“It is hard to see any other kind of life now,” she said. “You have become a necessity.”

“I think you should caption the last sketch,” he said.

She thought only for a moment, took a pen and wrote, “I do not care what anyone says, I love you, and we are going to be parents.”

“Oh darling, are you sure?”

-THAT'S ALL FOLKS-