“You always did promise to take care of me… such a good son.”
“And I will, just be patient a while longer. Another shipment will go out in a few days, once I receive what is due from my dealer, we will be half way there.”
“Meg will be so pleased…will you be marrying her then?”
To this, the strange man did not reply, and Clara could not determine his confirmation or denial of the Darcy’s cook. Only the sound of the door scraping closed, accompanied by the retreat of their footsteps could be heard above her pounding heart. Waiting what seemed like forever, Clara emerged from where she crouched, straitening stiff limbs and wiggling numb toes. She would need to find another way out aside from the kitchen stair. Exiting the storeroom, she felt her way in the gloom to what had to be the garden entrance. The steps here were earthen and gave under her shoes, but a dim sunlight provided a hope that her sense of direction was true. Unfortunately, the coarse wooden door leading outside was barred, showing not the empty garden, but the small stable yard where old James sat working on a harness. Clara began to panic with the thought of needing to retrace her steps and tried to gain the elderly man’s attention. Mrs. Winston had warned her to stay away from James as his mind had begun to wander. Feeble-minded or not he was her only savior. Daring to shake the door to capture his attention, Clara was relieved when he looked up from his task and shuffled to the door. Fumbling with the latch, the old man glanced furtively about as he did so. Fear, mixed with anger filled his voice as Clara was freed from her prison.
“What you doing in there girl? Poking about where it none of your business will come to a bad end… just like that other girl… poor thing. Ain’t nobody should end up like that… nobody.”
“Who? What girl?”
“Never you mind missy! Just keep to your own business… keep to your own business!”
James carefully re-latched the cellar door without another word and went back to his harness, refusing to speak again. Although relieved to be free, his words had only intensified the fear inside her. Something very wrong was going on inside that house, and the Darcys knew nothing about it.
~Nine~
Returning home several hours later, Elizabeth and Darcy were please to find the lower house windows glowing with welcoming light as they recalled the strange absence of their servants earlier in the day. After enjoying an excellent dinner at one of London’s finest restaurants, they had strolled leisurely through Convent Gardens, appreciating the displays before exhaustion reminded them of the lateness of the day.
“It appears that we have not been abandoned after all,” Darcy said dryly after he paid the public coach. His irritation, having waned in Elizabeth’s delight of the museum and gardens, now returned, threatening to ruin the rest of the evening. Approaching the front door, it opened before he could reach for the knob.
“Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Darcy! My sincerest apologies for having neglected my duties, but there was an emergency at the butchers. Just as I was leaving the shop, Mr. Sunbury ran out from the back room with a terrible gash on his arm. I simply could not leave the poor man to die. Meg was with me as she was wanting a particular selection for your dinner party this weekend. The other girls were on errands as well, did Clara not tell you?
“Er, no, she must have forgotten.” Darcy replied, but found the housekeeper’s words to have a rather hollow ring. While he had no concrete proof, he suspected that she was lying. Frowning, he held his opinion as Mrs. Winston continued her tale.
“What an irresponsible thing. I shall turn her out immediately! Mrs. Darcy cannot have someone like that caring for her things.”
“I do not believe that will be necessary. All is well now, is it not? And you have provided a lovely nightcap for us, surely it was just a misunderstanding…” Elizabeth insisted as they were followed into the small parlor where a linen covered table held an array of savories and a cooling bottle of wine.
“Well… if you insist.”
“I do… we can see to ourselves for now. Good night, Mrs. Winston.”
Elizabeth had taken a chair and popped a cheese tart into her mouth. She was not interested in domestic issues at such an hour and wanted the housekeeper’s absence. Something about the woman irritated her intensely. If anyone was to be sacked, it was not to be poor Clara. Chewing thoughtfully, she waited until the sound of a far door closing behind Mrs. Winston’s retreating steps gave privacy before speaking.
“That woman is a liar.”
Darcy nodded; he had busied himself pouring two glasses of a pale pink wine. Sniffing it, he smiled slightly. It was as sweet Italian blend, one of his favorites.
“I suspect so, but she has been here since before my father’s time. He kept her on out of convenience I suppose.”
“It seems that she has gotten far to comfortable having no owner in residence. Perhaps it is best for everyone that the place will be sold… eventually.”
“Yes, but it may take some time. I would hate to engage new staff only to have to let them go. As it is, arrangements will need to be made for one or two. Old James really should have retired years ago… as for Clara, I leave that up to you. You really will require a lady’s maid.”
“I took an instant liking to her, but she may not want to leave London for Pemberley.”
“You can be very convincing. Perhaps by the time we leave she will. Aunt Catherine is expecting us by the end of the month.”
“Don’t remind me!” Elizabeth groaned and drained her wine. She was not looking forward to the reunion, but it was necessary to maintain good relations.
“Georgiana will be pleased to see you… and go home. She has been at Rosings since our wedding,” Darcy insisted. It had been difficult to leave his sister, but she completely understood that there was no place for a third person on a wedding trip.
“Poor girl, but at least she has Anne to share the misery.”
“Indeed, maybe my Cousin Anne will need a bit of a holiday and come to Pemberley for a while. It will occupy Georgiana… leaving you to me. I admit to not wanting to share you with anyone just yet.”
“Nor I you…shall we retire?” Elizabeth suggested, with her eyes dancing.
“Are you terribly tired?”
“Not at all…. I have no intentions of sleeping.”
“Oh… well then, Mrs. Darcy…I am at your disposal”
~Ten~
Three days later….
Having sent word of the need for a delay, it was not until Friday of that week that the Darcys returned to the British Museum. Matthew Jennings, making the excuse of museum business, as well as the desire to arrange interviews with local artists, now reflected on recent events. The collection of smuggled art was still safely hidden in the Darcy cellars, but soon, they would be on their way to the continent, makng he, a far richer man. While the presence of Darcy and his new bride was inconvenient, it did allow him to keep a close eye upon their movements. Life had been so much easier when old Darcy had been alive. Deeply depressed after the death of his wife, the man spent much time well into his cups. But it was quiet, and that was exactly how Jennings liked it. It would not do to have the house become a hive of activity. If not for his mother’s position as housekeeper, it would have been necessary to find another location for this sort of business. Unfortunately, his was a delicate operation. No drafty, rodent ridden warehouse would suffice as it risked damaging the goods. The customs agents were also problematic, always demanding inspections and such. No agent would dare enter the home of a gentleman, nor would they accuse a respected museum curator. For that, he had his father to thank, not that it mattered. Wendell Jennings was dead in his grave, only acknowledging the child he had by his housekeeper after Matthew had showed promise in schooling and no other heir was to be had. The years spent at boarding school being teased for his absent parentage had only furthered his desire to succeed. Now, no one would connect him to the thin waif that had at one time polished shoes and silver for the ranks of people who now sent him invi
tations to dine. Not even Fitzwilliam Darcy remembered him. The son of the house did not socialize with the foundling children of servants, but by the time they met at university, Matthew was much changed. His voice had become cultured, his mannerisms and dress, that of a gentleman. To all that he encountered, he was the orphan son of Wendell Jennings Esq. Unfortunately, fancy education and a small trust fund had not opened many doors for him. It had taken bribery and threats, but that would soon be in the past. All he needed was one more batch of forgeries, and that, his poor artists would soon provide. Leaving his comfortable office, Matthew Jennings made his way to the lowest level of the museum. It was here, in a suite of sequestered chambers, that the restoration work was completed. Many of the museum pieces were fragile from age and abuse, requiring painstaking cleaning and repairs. The paints, carefully mixed pigments, often needed rare plants and compounds to ensure a match to that of the original. It was in this occupation, that he had begun to practice mimicking the masters. At first, the duplication of priceless art had been only a hobby, but later, as his place in the museum grew more secure, it became more. The casual replacement of a known work with his own had been a mere lark, fooling even experienced curators. Eventually, it had led to the sale of the originals and the hire of talented, yet impoverished artists. For this, it had required connections of the most disreputable sort. Chuckling to himself, Matthew found it ironic that many of the greatest thieves were also members of the highest circles of society. Fitzwilliam Darcy would simply be one more victim of his ruse.
Sorting through a selection of canvas, Jennings pulled a small square out from the rear of the pile. Really just a plank of wood, it bore the early stages of what would be the portrait of a woman. Done in shades of brown and green, he had struggled to get the expression right, but someday, it would be perfect and hang in the Louvre. The works of Leonardo da Vinci had always been his greatest challenge, a true master. Unfortunately, it would have to wait and one of his hirelings must go to Pemberley. Oh, how he hated to rely on the actions of others, but as Darcy was already an acquaintance, it was necessary. Two of such possibilities already waited in the gallery for an introduction. They were both excellent painters and would do his bidding but, it meant never seeing the satisfaction of having his own fake paintings hanging at Pemberley. Tucking the half-finished portrait away, Jennings dusted his hands and locked the door. He must not keep the Darcys waiting.
*****
That same morning, as the Darcys arose to meet the day, they shared a late breakfast and spoke of recent events. There had not been the slightest suggestion of anything strange going on, in the night or otherwise. Only Elizabeth’s new maid seemed a bit skittish even after her mistress calmly gave the most rational explanations for everything. A practical person, Elizabeth now cast her suspicions to distant memory. Eavesdropping never did do anyone the slightest bit of good. It was not her business to interfere in the private lives of the servants, unless invited to do so, or it caused neglect of their work. However, when it came to Clara Smedly, Elizabeth’s heartstrings tugged with pity. For the past few days, it seemed that the girl was desperately trying to confide something but was afraid.
“You should have seen the poor thing, like a cornered animal, stepping from one foot to another and wringing her hands. She did not know I was watching and I asked if something was the matter, she adamantly denied it.”
“Perhaps it is nothing, surely the trifles of young ladies pass quickly?”
“Oh Fitzwilliam! I love you dearly, but you have much to learn about young ladies, and remember, Clara has never led a life that has been easy. She may have much to cause worry, I only wish to help.”
Darcy sighed, Elizabeth was right, as always. Despite having a younger sister, he knew precious little about how the female mind worked. This deficit had only deepened now that he had married. If there was something amiss amongst the women of the house, servant or family, Elizabeth would need to address it herself. She was mistress now, and that was one of the responsibilities that came with the title. He was simply content to believe that nothing of dangerous significance was happening under his roof. After reassuring Elizabeth that he would investigate what she had overheard the previous week, it had come to naught. Rising at random hours each night, he had casually wandered the darkened rooms to discover nothing at all. Not even a mouse was stirring, not that any Darcy household ever had a rodent problem. Just last night, with less than an hour before dawn, he had gone so far as to venture into the kitchen storerooms. All had been in order, clean and prepared for the next day. If something untoward were happening, it was in the cellars or attics, and to those dank places he was not about to go in his dressing gown. Besides, it had been years since those areas of the house had been used, and were best left to the spiders. Now satisfied, he smiled and turned his attention to the tart peach preserves upon his toast. Mrs. Winston had remembered all his favorites. As housekeeper for as long as the Darcy’s possessed the house, he vowed to bestow a comfortable pension upon her once the place sold. That is…if anyone ever bought it…but that worry could wait for another day. Today, he and Elizabeth would select a painter for her portrait. With less than a week before they must be at Rosings, he hoped the day would be productive.
“I leave all domestic matters of the heart to you, my dear. Perhaps you might wish to bring Clara to Pemberley? You did say she was proving to be an excellent lady’s maid.”
“That she is. Clara has a natural talent for arranging hair and selecting accessories. She also managed to remove those stains from my new silk. I should like to keep her if she is amenable to the idea of relocating.”
“So, she is part magician as well, how beneficial.” Darcy teased. The previous evening, they had dined at the home of an old family friend. Mr. Abel Halford had been his father’s closest confidant, but now in his dotage, he often spilled things. The result had been significant damage to Elizabeth’s gown as well as smelling like creamed duck the entire evening.
“Indeed, but you may be right, perhaps a change of scenery would perk her up. Pemberley always has that effect upon me.”
“Well then, Mrs. Darcy, I suggest we conclude our London business as quickly as possible so we may return to the restorative paradise we call home. If you have finished eating, I will leave you to dress and order the carriage. Shall an hour be enough time?”
“Half that! If it gets me closer to leaving!”
~Eleven~
As promised, Elizabeth was ready within the hour and rode beside her husband feeling content. As she dressed, Elizabeth had casually offered the permanent position as her lady’s maid to Clara.
“It would require you to come to Pemberley, in Derbyshire. We do travel, but it is generally limited to my parents’ home in Hertfordshire and that of Mr. Darcy’s aunt. We may not be back in London for some time.”
“Oh Madam! You have made me the happiest of persons! I will not cause you to regret this decision.”
“Are you sure? London has been your home; will your family not miss you? I cannot promise when you might see them again.”
“I…I have no family…that is, no close relations, nor do I have attachments for London.”
“Well then, I should be pleased to have you.”
The conversation had been limited, but Elizabeth had not mistaken the relief that had been expressed in the girl’s countenance at the prospect of leaving London. Clara was clearly unsettled about something, but it clearly had nothing to do with the Darcys. Whatever it was, putting distance between it and herself appeared to be the solution for Clara. Hopefully, if the afternoon proved fruitful, they would be on their way to Rosings by week’s end. This thought put a smile on her lips as the carriage halted before their destination. As before, the British Museum’s marble façade beckoned them to step back in time, but upon this visit, Elizabeth had remembered to bring the mysterious portrait. Wrapped carefully in a soft cloth, and then bound in heavy paper, it appeared to be of no more account than a parc
el of newspapers. Elizabeth had almost contemplated leaving the portrait behind. What did it matter who painted it? It was obvious that there had been a deep emotional attachment between Isabel Darcy and the man in the reflection. Exposing it some how felt like an invasion of privacy.
“Matthew will be very excited to examine it. Just think! We might have a work done by one of the Renaissance masters. I know it is foolish to hope so, but something tells me that this portrait is special,” Darcy said as he assisted her down from the carriage.
As he spoke, the man in question was already standing in the entrance. A steady rain had begun, and now he came forward with an umbrella against the elements.
“I see you have taken great care to protect it, good job Darcy. At least you have not forgotten all of your studies.”
“Indeed, he has not, and takes great pleasure in demonstrating it,” Elizabeth insisted.
“You make me sound like a braggart!” Darcy countered. He never forgot his wife’s accusations of excessive pride when they had first become acquainted.
“Not at all, just well versed in many things… all of which I am terribly fond.”
Darcy relaxed as they followed Matthew Jennings down a narrow hall. They had not been to this part of the building before, it was an area designated for employees only. Pushing open a door labeled “restorations”, they were exposed to a whitewashed, yet windowless chamber lined with easels. Some, bore partially cleaned paintings, others stood empty, awaiting the next canvas. For light, a long row of oil lamps dangled from the low ceiling.
“I know it seems a bit like a cave, but direct sunlight damages the delicate pigments. We find that this arrangement is best for the works, but terrible for our eyesight,” Matthew explained as he moved to an easel that was narrow with a high ledge, it was perfect for the size of the Darcy portrait as it placed it directly at eye level. Lowering a lamp as Darcy unwrapped the portrait, Matthew Jennings restrained his surprise at what was revealed. Moving forward, he was silent during his examination. Having donned a pair of white cotton gloves, he carefully fingered the layers of paint, tracing the outline of the figures. It was magnificent…the haunting face of the man as he reached out to the woman reflected his own desire to belong in a world that would never accept him. An overwhelming sense of possessiveness threatened to betray the impartial professional demeanor he portrayed. Of this style and ability, he had seen but few, and all belonging to the hand of one particular painter. Was it possible that this could be another? Only Fitzwilliam Darcy could be so fortunate to accidentally find something of this caliber. But, was it a true Caravaggio? Peering intently, Jennings looked for any clear signature that could define the identity of the artist. There was nothing, only the images, lifelike and dimensional despite the flat surface. Turning the painting over, he was equally disappointed. The only surety, based upon his years of experience, was that the work had originated sometime in the early 1600’s. He needed more time with the work…alone. Then, he could test small samples of the paints for their composition, make some comparisons and if possible… copy the piece until he was sure. But if this feeling of being in the presence of a master was true, his days of slaving away as a crown employee were over, and sooner than originally planned. Oh! What his foreign collectors would pay for a lost Caravaggio! Placing the painting down with care, he removed his gloves and finally faced the Darcys.
Portraits of Pemberley Page 4