“I… I don’t know madam.”
“What about Cook? Or one of the footmen?”
This time, the maid looked at her feet, afraid to answer. The threat of her dismissal by the housekeeper was fresh, but she was not about to refuse the new mistress.
“I don’t know that either. No one was there when I took down the breakfast tray,” Clara whispered.
“Do you know where anyone else is?” Darcy demanded. His tone, harsher than he intended, sent a tear cascading down the maid’s cheek. Instantly regretting it, he sighed in irritation. It was clear that when the master was away, the mice did play, but it was not to be tolerated.
“It is all right Clara, no one is blaming you for anything. But, if there is something we need to know, you must tell us.”
“I don’t know anything… they all just disappear for hours…and there are strange noises at night, but I don’t dare leave my room.”
Hearing her own experience verified, Elizabeth pressed her hand on Darcy’s arm. Shaking her head to prevent any further questioning, he eyed her curiously, but took the subtle hint and forced his anger to relax. There was no point in interrogating a child, but something was very wrong in his house. He would have it out, but not now.
“That’s a good girl. You go about your duties for Mrs. Darcy and I will sort all this out later. But Clara, you have nothing to be afraid of while we are here, be assured of that.”
Clara nodded, but the promises of Mr. Darcy did little to quell the shaking in her bones. For eventually, the Darcys would leave and she would be alone.
~Six~
Stepping out of the townhouse, Darcy did his best to contain his ire. Where was his entire staff? After dismissing Clara, he and Elizabeth spent the next half an hour going from room to room, including the servants wing, but not a soul was to be found. Even the back mews was deserted save for the horses.
“I cannot even have the use of my own carriage! Never before have I encountered such bold insolence as to have servants abandon their posts. There had better be a good explanation for this.”
“Ordinarily I would assume some logical occurrence, but after yesterday I am suspicious … I had wanted to tell you earlier but you were already gone.”
“Tell me what?”
“It is what Clara said about strange noises in the night. I have heard them too…. Well not noises exactly, but two people arguing.”
“Why did you not wake me?”
“I hoped it was some sort of domestic squabble, but now… now I am not so sure. They seemed to be arguing about a great secret… and a murder. It sounded so outlandish that I thought I must have misunderstood, as is often so with those who listen in on the conversations of others.”
Darcy sighed, he had hoped to wait until after dinner, but that was clearly impossible. However, he was not about to discuss private business while standing in the street. Hailing a public coach, Darcy assisted his wife into the relative privacy now afforded and related his earlier conversation with the solicitor.
“Unfortunately, the history of the house is in question as to its respectability. I only wish that my father had mentioned it beforehand.”
Elizabeth, rather than display the expected shock, giggled slightly. Despite the odd behavior of the servants, the idea of scandal in the townhouse was amusing, but Darcy did not share her mirth.
“Oh, don’t be so dour. Death is a simple fact; however, it is achieved. Houses of that age cannot go forever without something of that sort happening.”
“But Elizabeth, it was not just some old dowager passing in her sleep. This was a gruesome murder of a prostitute… and it took place in our bedchamber.”
“Well, I should think that the furnishings have long since been changed. Did it not happen nearly thirty years ago? Surely it is old news and of no interest to anyone now save a potential buyer. But if it bothers you so much, we can be relocated to another room while we remain in London. For now, it is best we worry about what is happening amongst the living. I shall see what I can learn from Clara. That poor girl is terrified of something, but I will discover what it is in my own way. I hardly think that an interrogation of Mrs. Winston and the rest of the staff will result in anything but lies. And, it may be nothing of any great account. Many servants have some sort of side occupation to garner extra income, especially when the master of the house is often absent. It is not worth punishing anyone over.”
“You make it sound as if they are not paid fairly.”
“Not at all, but their situations are often temporary. As we plan to sell the house, the worry of new postings can be daunting. It never hurts to have a bit of savings. My own father found that out rather late, and we were considered quite comfortable. In a moment, life can change and a person must be prepared for the worst.”
To this logic, Darcy could not provide an argument. Elizabeth’s compassion and understanding for the situations of others was commendable, but it did not change the feeling of being used. If there was something going on under his roof, he would know of it!
“I have no issue with what a person does in their free time. Our servants are not slaves, but if it happens in my home, I must be aware. For now, I will leave the questioning up to you, but be assured that I will form a habit of nocturnal wanderings. No business of a respectable nature needs to hide in the dark.”
Elizabeth only nodded and turned her attentions to the carriage window. Having arrived at their destination, she took in the majestic form of the British Museum. Established in the mid 1700’s, it now housed one of the finest collections of not only art, but historical artifacts. It was a place that Elizabeth had only dreamed of being able to visit. Stepping down from the carriage, all thoughts of domestic disturbances vanished with the prospect of spending the next few hours surrounded but such beauty.
“Even the façade is grand, like a Roman temple! What it must have taken to recreate. What it must have been like to have lived during Roman Britain. It is hard to believe that we once shared the same empire.” Elizabeth said as the climbed the white marble steps. Feeling as if she were about to step back in time her eyes brightened with excitement.
“One befitting a goddess like yourself,” Darcy teased, feeling his own tensions melt away with her smile. Elizabeth never ceased to make his troubles seem insignificant and for that he would be forever grateful.
~Seven~
Once inside the cool interior of the museum, it was only moments before they were greeted by the head curator himself. Darcy, having been more friend than acquaintance with Matthew Jennings since his time at university, smiled genuinely as he introduced Elizabeth.
“What has it been? Ten years at least! I must say, I was surprised to hear of your marriage, but congratulations. Mrs. Darcy… so pleased to make the acquaintance of the person who managed to find a crack in the ironclad armor of Fitzwilliam Darcy. We used to call him the iceberg… but that is a story for another time.”
“Indeed, I cannot have all my secrets told so soon. Whatever will I save for our dotage? That aside, it is good to see you again. Head curator in just five years? Usually a person has to wait for someone to die to have that position, but you always did have a natural talent.”
“More business sense than talent. The art world has become more about personal taste and pleasing the buyer than actual masterpieces. As for my position, old professor Middleton was nearing eighty. He was happy to retire; I was merely convenient.”
“Nonsense! Elizabeth, you should really see some of his works. Perhaps we might convince Matthew to take a sabbatical and paint your portrait.”
Elizabeth, enjoying the banter between her husband and the curator, was pleased to see that Darcy was willing to relax around others. While she knew that his often stuffy appearance was just a façade, it was good to know that she was not alone. The only mar to an otherwise pleasant encounter was a strange feeling of déjà vu. Although she had never met Mr. Jennings before, there was something about him that seemed so familiar�
��and unnerving. Unable to place the connection, she tried to remain cordial.
“I should love to see your work. Are any of your pictures displayed here?”
“Oh no. I fear that I have not seriously lifted a brush in years. Most of the exhibits are of well-known artists, most of which are long dead. But we do have one special area for what society calls “up and coming” artists. They offer their works for sale as well as take on commissioned work. If you like what you see, I can arrange for an interview.”
“That would be excellent, but as Mrs. Darcy has never been here, I should like the grand tour first.”
“I am at your disposal.”
*****
For nearly three hours, Elizabeth examined one wonder after another. They began in the exhibits on ancient Rome and slowly made their way to what would soon become her favorite room. Of the many priceless pieces, the chamber dedicated to Renaissance painters was more of a living stage play than museum. Bold colors of layered paint made two dimensional images appear to breathe and move. Through it all, Matthew Jennings did his best to provide historical background on the artist and subject matter. His voice, while entertaining and informative had begun to become a blur of facts that Elizabeth knew she would never remember. Politely nodding with each entry, they moved in a regular progression without interruption. It was not until in sight of a particular collection of paintings that she stopped, peering intently at the figures. Her countenance bore a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity as she studied the images.
“A bit morbid, even if they are biblical scenes,” Mr. Jennings said with a trace of humor. Nearly all the pieces were of decapitations, some complete, others in process. Not a favorite with the female clientele. Only one, a large dark piece depicting a solitary man staring at his reflection was different, it was this that had captivated Elizabeth’s attention.
“Whose are these?” Elizabeth queried with a touch of awe in her voice.
“They are by an Italian named Michelangelo Caravaggio. The last, Narcissus is only believed to be his as it is unsigned, but clearly is of the same hand. A true master, if not a troubled man. He is quite possibly the best-known artist for his realism during the Baroque period. We only have them on loan from Rome for the next few weeks. I must admit, it took a bit of convincing to arrange the exhibit, but I would have traded all of Stonehenge if necessary.”
Elizabeth laughed, imagining the transport of ancient stones in exchange for priceless art, but how did one place a value on national treasures?
“If I could have my portrait done by one such as he! Now that would be something worth sitting still for hours. It’s funny, but I feel like I have seen his work before.”
Throughout this, Darcy had been silent. He too, examined the paintings carefully. Having studied the Baroque period little, he had never the opportunity to see the works in person…or so he had believed.
“I am of the opinion that you have, my dear… that is, we have. Look at this one, the features are nearly identical to that of Isabel Darcy’s mirror man,” Darcy reasoned as Elizabeth peered to where he directed.
“That one is David with the Head of Goliath, from around 1610 or so. Some claim that it is a self-portrait of the artist as both a youth and older man. But what is this mirror man?” Mr. Jennings asked in confusion.
“The portrait we found. The one I wrote about; it is very like those here and of the same time period. The use of color is remarkably similar. I would not dare to presume it is the same artist, but after seeing this reflection painting, I believe it could be possible,” Darcy replied cautiously. He hated to get Elizabeth’s hopes up only to have them crushed.
“That would be a find indeed, but it would need to be authenticated as there have always been artists who copy the masters. But if you are interested, I should be happy to assist in the process. Did you bring the painting to London?” Mr. Jennings asked.
“Yes, but it was forgotten. We were in a bit of a disarray this morning, domestic problems.”
“Well, it is growing late. Besides, you have yet to see the exhibits of current artists. Perhaps later this week? It will give me time to make inquiries.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea, we are free on Saturday if that is acceptable,” Elizabeth offered.
“Until then… and once again, I am pleased to make your acquaintance Mrs. Darcy.”
Matthew Jennings escorted his guests to the entrance with more well wishes. His pleasant countenance belied the turmoil that was churning inside. Now was not a good time for Fitzwilliam Darcy to return to London. The idea that his old university adversary was in possession of a long-lost Caravaggio was laughable. Darcy never was particularly diligent in his studies as he. Too much time worrying about his inheritance and Pemberley. Well, it must be grand to not have a care in the world about living expenses. Such luxury was not handed to men like Matthew Jennings, he had been forced to work for what he had… and not always on the right side of the law. His acquaintance… no…his friendship, with Darcy had served him well. No one had ever questioned his regular visits to the London townhome, even when the master was away.
~Eight~
After the Darcys had departed, Clara Smedly tried to go about her duties as if it were any other day, in any normal household. Finding the task impossible, her mind raced as to the reason why she was the sole person there. At first, she busied herself with the arrangement of Mrs. Darcy’s clothing and toiletries, but the mistress was a tidy woman. All it did was allow for her thoughts to drift with each tick of the hall clock below.
“Where is everyone?” she whispered aloud, but no reply came, save the regular beating of her heart. Swallowing her anxiety, Clara dared venture into the kitchens. With a ready excuse should she encounter anyone, her hands shook as she pushed open the door a crack. Peering inside, it was completely empty. A cold hearth and bare tables stood where bustling activity should be preparing dinner. Frowning, but feeling relieved, Clara absently wandered the cavernous brick walled chamber. Having only been employed a fortnight, her knowledge of the house was still limited. Normally, a complete tour would have been expected. Maids were often ordered to do tasks well beyond their regular duties, especially if shorthanded or guests were in residence. However, Mrs. Winston had been adamant that Clara only attend Mrs. Darcy. In comparison to her previous post, it was a life of leisure and she did not know what to do with the hours of idleness. Now, taking advantage of the solitude, she poked in cupboards and took note of the contents, daring to steal a chocolate biscuit. Cramming it into her mouth, she turned to the three doors opposite the great iron stove. The first, held a dry larder filled with bins of beans, tea and vegetables. The next, equally uninteresting, held various items for cleaning. It was the third that opened to a dark stair leading below. The cellars. Who knew what lurked down in the depths below? By now, she had relaxed and felt confident enough to explore. Taking a small lantern, Clara felt along the wall and found a rope railing to steady her descent. It was a twisted flight, but one that was broad enough to accommodate large barrels or unwanted furniture. The steps, rather than be the expected damp, were strewn with sand to prevent slippage. Had she not known better; Clara would have imagined that she was inside a medieval castle instead of a modern London townhome. Unfortunately, that was the extent of the daydream as the bottom exposed nothing but an expansive wine cellar and two smaller store rooms. The doors to these chambers were fitted with small barred windows.
“Like a prison.” She muttered, peering in only to find sealed crates and a number of thin rectangle shaped packages wrapped in heavy brown paper. It was utterly boring, and spotlessly clean. Most cellars were havens for spiders and mice, but not here. A lingering odor of something acrid and piney that she could not quite place, nipped at her nostrils, threatening a sneeze. Pondering the source, Clara walked between the neat rows, wrinkling her nose.
“Linseed oil! That’s what it is. Smells like Papa’s shed full of old paint.”
Looking about
for a few more minutes, Clara could not discover the source of the scent and prepared to return above. It would not do be discovered where she had no business being. Retracing her steps, she paused as the flame of her lamp flared and danced suddenly. The fumes had gotten stronger, but it was not the fear of fire that halted her progress. It was the sound of voices… and they were coming below. Crouching behind a stack of crates, she blew out her lamp and held her breath, hoping whomever it was would not discover her. Fearing a sneeze would betray her presence, Clara pinched her nose tightly as footsteps reach her hiding place.
“I thought I told you to never leave the door open! Lord it stinks in here. Are you sure it can’t be smelled upstairs?”
“Don’t you worry about that, only Meg and me ever come down here. We are safe, you let Mama handle everything.”
The second voice, Clara instantly recognized as Mrs. Winston, but who was the other? To her knowledge, the housekeeper was a widow without children. From her refuge, Clara could only see the man’s lower half. He wore trousers and shoes like that of Mr. Darcy… and his voice, it was soft and cultured, so unlike the coarser London accent of Mrs. Winston. How could her son be so different?
“I do rely upon you Mother dear, as always, but we must be careful. I met with the Darcys today; they may be in London longer than first expected.”
“Whatever for?”
“It seems they require someone of my particular talents… a painting.”
“You?”
“Not me exactly, but one of my aspiring artists…I have decided that Thomas Linder will be the one. He is a manageable sort, and will do as he’s told, plus he has already been engaged by Darcy’s own aunt. This may be extremely beneficial acquaintance aside from the house. The Darcy estate of Pemberley is filled with priceless art. If I can have my man inside for a time, we may be able to retire from this business. Wouldn’t you like a little house somewhere? A garden and a maid of your own? Imagine Mother, no more scraping and curtseying to anyone?”
Portraits of Pemberley Page 3