Portraits of Pemberley

by Carrie Mollenkopf

  Thomas Linder had not been mistaken in the belief that he was the subject of inspection. Having arrived just one day prior to the painter, Clara Smedley was doing her own adjusting to life at Pemberley. Despite being already a bit familiar with the Darcys, becoming a part of such a grand estate was something entirely different. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, had welcomed her like family. Her gentle instruction was a far cry from the harsh orders of Mrs. Winston. With an entire army of servants, Clara’s duties had been reduced by more than half. And as the Darcys were not to arrive for yet another day, she was beside herself as to what to do with so much idle time.

  “Take advantage of this time to learn the house, and don’t worry about being an intrusion. Unless a door is specifically locked or assigned to another servant, feel free to poke your nose in. It is easy to become lost unless one has familiarity.”

  Clara nodded, and smiled, she had gotten turned about twice that very morning. Her own chamber, its door already bearing her name on a card in the door plate, was at the top of the house with the rest of the staff. These rooms, consisting of two parallel halls in each wing of the house, met around a center common room. This luxury contained comfortable seating, a writing desk as well as an assortment of gaming boards and books. Clara had not expected such accommodations and had spent nearly an hour taking in its features.

  “All this, just for us?” she had said aloud, but that was before Mrs. Reynolds gave her the grand tour. Each chamber had been more magnificent than the rest, sending her into a sensory overload. The portrait gallery, filled with long dead Darcys, overlooked a collection of antiquities. The stark white marble figures, most of Roman or Greek gods, were a sharp contrast to the ebony floors. Fearing she would break something with her clumsy ways, Clara had kept her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she tried to remember everything Mrs. Reynolds said. Eventually, duties demanded the elder woman return to the kitchens, leaving Clara to her own devices. Retracing her steps, the newest member of the household returned to what she had immediately believed to be the best parts of Pemberley… the gallery and solarium. However, after spending some time studying the figures, a noise in the adjoining chamber disturbed her serenity.

  Expecting to find another maid about her work, Clara was surprised to discover that the chamber, which a mere hour earlier had been elegantly decorated to suit a lady’s tastes, now had the furnishings pushed awkwardly against the walls. Heavy tarps covered the floor where an easel and other paraphernalia for painting now took their place. Having never seen such work undertaken, Clara kept her presence hidden as she watched the stranger. With his back to her, she could only appraise his form in terms of a slender musculature. Tapered fingers repeatedly raked unfashionably long blond hair. His clothes, well-tailored but worn, fit rather snugly in a way that pleased Clara enough to send a flush to her features. It was only when he spoke that her daydreams turned to nightmare.

  “That should do it, the light will be natural and bright, regardless of the weather. No one will ever say that Thomas Linder does not know his art,” he said aloud to a presumed empty room. But it was not his casual arrogance that sent fear shooting through Clara’s bones. She had heard that very name before, and not in a place she cared to remember. The memory of her entrapment in the cellars had just barely begun to fade. Now, it came crashing back with alacrity. This man was who Mrs. Winston’s son had claimed to be working for him. She had forgotten, as the terror of being discovered hiding behind the strange smelling packages had consumed her thoughts. But now, in the safety of Pemberley, the familiar scent of paint solvent enhanced the recollection. What was he doing here? Surely not something so innocuous as painting a portrait. There had to be another reason to be suddenly in yet another Darcy home and it was definitely not of an honorable nature. Mrs. Darcy must be told immediately, but what would she say and not appear hysterical? As this quandary presented, Clara bumped into a small side table. The noise, giving away her presence, sent her feet running. She needed some time alone to contemplate what to do.

  ~Twenty-one~

  Late Afternoon, the next day…

  Oblivious to the turmoil that plagued certain members of their staff, Elizabeth and Darcy were relieved to see their journey’s end as the carriage turned down the final drive home. It seemed an unfathomable length of time since they had been there, despite the absence being relatively short. For Elizabeth, the idea of constant travel between several residences was not appealing. It made one feel a constant guest in their own home. As the house itself came into view, a sigh escaped her lips, one loud enough to wake her dozing husband.

  “It will be good to have a bit of quiet. The demands of family can be rather draining. I only wish Georgiana were here. I should have insisted she come home.”

  “To what end? Perhaps it is simply a need to spread her wings a bit. It is not only men who want to see a bit of the world.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Georgiana has been on two tours of the continent…oh, I see now, she needs to escape me.”

  “I would not say ‘escape’, but living with one’s aunt, even if it is Lady Catherine, is still liberating. When I traveled with my Aunt Gardiner, I was treated like an adult… not a child. Unfortunately, despite her age, Georgiana will always be a bit of a child to you. It is only natural as you practically raised her.”

  “When you say it, all is sensible, but it still feels like she wants to run away from home.”

  Elizabeth only laughed, but knew that despite the comforts of Pemberley, it could still seem like a prison to one who rarely left. Besides, living with Lady Catherine de Bourgh was hardly freedom. The woman had eyes like a feral beast, and nothing missed her observation or censure. If Lady Catherine was suspicious about Charlotte’s behavior, it may have gone noticed by others. However, as she had not been able to privately speak with Mrs. Collins before leaving, Elizabeth would have to be content with being hopeful for a happy outcome. But if the worst happened, could she offer a home to her closest friend? A woman disgraced by the arrival of an illegitimate child was difficult to hide, even with unlimited funds. It was even more troubling when the suspected accomplice in the act was now residing under the same roof. Did Master Linder even realize that Charlotte was expecting a child? It was a delicate matter, but one that Elizabeth resolved to find a way to address. With the painting sessions to begin that week, she would use subtle conversation to gain information before making any judgements. All to often, hasty actions resulted in far greater pain than simply letting matters rest.

  In the end, so many trivial items took possession of her time that a full week had passed before Elizabeth was able to take her first sitting. During that time, Thomas Linder had joined them for dinner along with a few guests from the local great houses in the area. As a result, the potential for the painter to remain longer in the region grew with demands for his abilities.

  “I must see Mrs. Darcy’s portrait as soon as it is finished. I had mine done some years ago, but am no longer satisfied that it truly captures my likeness,” insisted Mrs. Grace Barrington, much to the dismay of her son Edward.

  As a dowager, Grace Barrington was well past seventy, but was known for her flirtations. With an estate near in size, but a house of considerably smaller accommodation, the Barringtons had been close acquaintances with the Darcy’s for generations. After the elder Mr. Barrington died, his widow immediately gained a reputation for having quick fingers upon the person of any nearby young man. It was embarrassing in the extreme, but one did not chastise an elderly lady of society, regardless of her behavior.

  “Mama, perhaps it is time for Evie to have hers done as well?” Edward Barrington suggested. It would be far safer for all parties if his mother had a chaperone, even if it was his nineteen-year-old daughter. A plain girl, Evie Barrington had long expressed a desire to take holy orders as a nun, but had been denied by family pressures to marry. However, Evie’s over pious nature had done much to curb her grandmother’s antics.

 
“Whatever for? Nuns have no need for portraits! No one ever remembers them, even their names are erased when they enter convents. If Maudie were here, she would agree, but we all know why your wife does not appear in society!”

  This comment, with its intention to render Edward Barrington silent, did its work well. It was common knowledge that he had married a nervous woman. Rumors of madness… however false… had circulated so heavily that his poor Maudie was too fragile to tolerate much public company. As a result, his mother had taken up much of the responsibility of raising her grandchildren. While appreciative for the assistance, Edward knew it only provided an opportunity for his mother to prey on unsuspecting young men. Fortunately, his sons’ acquaintances were far too young to tempt his mother. It was only those with aspirations to court Evie who stood in line for abuse. Scanning the Darcy’s faces for support, he was relieved when Elizabeth offered the solarium at Pemberley for the services.

  “You and Evie are welcome to come here for the sittings. Master Linder believes our solar possesses the most excellent source of natural light. Besides, he has considerable supplies that would require transport. Most inconvenient to move, and I should love the company.”

  “That is most generous of you Mrs. Darcy! Barrington Chase is already overflowing; we would not know where to put a studio. Evie will no doubt benefit from your liveliness as well and forget this nun nonsense.”

  “I cannot promise that, but if you are in agreement, then consider it arranged. Master Linder, can you manage three portraits at once?”

  To this transaction, Thomas Linder had watched in silence. His future was still being manipulated by others, despite his temporary reprieve from the demands of Matthew Jennings. However, the added income would be welcome. Nodding in agreement, he smiled at the ladies.

  “It should not be a problem at all, but my stay at Pemberley will necessarily be some weeks longer.”

  “Time is of no matter if you are agreeable.”

  Thomas only nodded again, but this change in plans would require correspondence with Matthew Jennings as it could delay his procurement of art for some weeks. How was he to not only find, but also duplicate any of the Darcy’s art collection while completing three other paintings? Another form of transport from Pemberley would have to be arranged for whatever items were removed. What was to be a simple job, was quickly becoming more and more complicated.

  ~Twenty-two~

  The morning of the first portrait sitting was one of great irritation for Elizabeth. It was not the actual process of remaining still, with a fixed expression that pained her, it was the simple selection of what she was to wear. Until her marriage, the choices of dress had been limited. With sparse funds for elaborate wardrobes, the Bennet sisters had often modified the same gown repeatedly, with different trims to make it appear new. Now, with nearly two dozen from which to select, what did one want future generations to see? Never a fussy person, it galled her that she had given into this particular vanity. Not only was that the epitome of silliness, it seemed that the foolishness was contagious. Her own maid had spilt tea on one choice and nearly scorched another in an attempt to press imaginary creases from the silk. If Elizabeth were of a suspicious nature, she would believe that something was trying to prevent her from ever having her portrait painted.

  “What of the hunter green? Mr. Darcy is partial to that shade,” Elizabeth suggested with exasperation after the fifth dressing.

  “I believe it is still in the laundry. There was a stain on the hem that is being troublesome.”

  One after another, each choice was denied as Clara gave reason for its unavailability. More than once, the maid fidgeted with the costly fabrics, her nervous fingers seeming to want to tear them to pieces. Ordinarily of the most practical nature, these movements were not lost upon Elizabeth and she finally took the last gown from her maid’s hands.

  “Clara… is something the matter? You are all thumbs today. Are you not adjusting to life at Pemberley?”

  “Oh no Madam, all is as one could ever wish… it’s just… well….”

  “Well what? You know that you are free to tell me anything. I cannot attend to a problem of which I am unaware.”

  Elizabeth’s words, normally a balm to any distress, sent the maid’s eyes to the floor. Surely nothing was so bad that it rendered her silent? Watching as the young girl sniffed and brushed away a stray tear, Elizabeth prodded gently.

  “Clara? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “N…no…not me… it’s the painter.”

  A twinge of apprehension piqued Elizabeth’s composure as the accusations of impropriety made by Lady Catherine flooded back. If this man had no qualms about a liaison with a minister’s wife, then surely a maid was of no consequence. However, her husband’s aunt was quick to form opinions, and she would not want to accuse without evidence.

  “Master Linder? What about him? Has he done anything to you?”

  “No… but I have heard things… bad things.”

  “What sort of things? Mr. Darcy and I would not bring a disreputable person into our home. He comes highly regarded by one of Mr. Darcy’s closest acquaintances. Mr. Jennings is quite trustworthy. Gossip is often spread by those who are envious, with only half truths ever being known.”

  To this declaration, Clara swallowed heavily, but it did little to assuage her fears. Had she misunderstood completely the day when she had been trapped in the cellars of the London house? The Darcys seemed like the most respectable people and had treated her with nothing but kindness. As a child, Clara had often been accused of jumping to conclusions, but this time she was sure that something was not right. Leaving London had seemed like the end of her worries, but now trouble had followed. Mrs. Darcy’s logical words made the world appear perfect, especially in the sun filled bedchamber, but when one was locked in a dark, dank cellar, evil abounded.

  “Trust me Clara, and don’t believe everything you hear in the servant’s hall. I shall speak to Mrs. Reynolds about curbing the wagging tongues.”

  “Please don’t…they will know it was me…”

  Elizabeth sighed, managing servants was very much like settling the disputes between her sisters. She had hoped to have eliminated that chore with her marriage, but all households were pretty much the same. People were not perfect, they squabbled and held petty opinions.

  “If that is what you want… but if it continues, I shall interfere. Now let us speak of it no more. I must be dressed and ready when the Barringtons arrive. Now they, will be worthy of gossip!”

  Forcing a smile, Clara nodded and pulled from the wardrobe a brocade gown in a dusty rose color. It was the perfect shade to compliment her mistress’s skin and hair. She would not mention the painter again, but that would not stop her from keeping an eye upon him.

  “I had forgotten all about that one! The gown alone is worthy of immortality,” Elizabeth announced, but did not forget what had been discussed. She too would be watching the painter closely, but for a very different reason.

  *****

  Less than twenty minutes later, gowned and coifed, Elizabeth Darcy sat in one of three identical chairs that had been posed about the solarium. Two, sat opposite the one in which she reposed, in those, the personages of Evie and Grace Barrington held the best vantage point to observe the painter’s process. This arrangement allowed Elizabeth to study her guests as well. As she was to not speak for it would alter her countenance, opinions would be kept private. As it was, old Mrs. Barrington had already abandoned her post in favor of hovering over poor Thomas Linder. Resisting the urge to smile, Elizabeth wagered that the young man would end the session with a very pinched and bruised backside. Even though they had barely begun, she noticed him flinch each time Grace came near. Evie Barrington, however, was a polar opposite in both presentation and demeanor. Dressed in a drab grey gown with a high lace collar, Evie’s placid features displayed no emotion. Polite, but reserved, Grace Barrington may well have brought a life-sized doll dressed as
a housemaid. Only the sadness in Evie’s eyes bore evidence of life, but even that had been fleeting then gone, replaced by an exasperation for the elder woman’s antics. In truth, Evie Barrington reminded Elizabeth of her own sister Mary. But in Mary’s case, the piety was false, merely an attempt to gain notice in a house filled with women. Was Evie’s desire to be a nun also an escape? Curiosity filled Elizabeth as she held her pose, unable to voice questions of interest, but remaining still was proving difficult.

  “Grandmama! Do keep your hands to yourself! How is he to ever complete anything if you do not refrain from touching him?”

  Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud at the blunt chastisement. Like a child, Grace Barrington did as ordered, but not before pulling a face in defiance. With hands clasped behind her back, the dowager wandered the solarium.

  “As you can see Mrs. Darcy, Evie will not allow me to have a bit of fun. Surely Mr. Linder does not fear the advances of an old woman?”

  Not waiting for a reply, she continued to walk about, complementing the changes to the décor. Stopping before an ornate landscape painting of Pemberley, Grace Barrington’s face turned to that of puzzlement.

  “Elizabeth? Was there not another painting here? It has been some time since I have been to Pemberley, but I distinctly remember another being in this very spot.”

  Looking to the artist for permission to speak, his nod of approval allowed for a sharpening of the charcoal pencil he held as Elizabeth replied.

  “You are correct, my husband relocated some of the older works to the library. Mr. Darcy has quite an eye for art, even insisting upon cleaning and caring for not only the more valuable pieces, but the entire family portrait gallery.”

  As she spoke, Thomas Linder busied himself with the arrangement of his supplies, only half listening to the conversation. The rudimentary outline of Mrs. Darcy’s form was nearly complete. It was an easy enough process, mixing the paint and getting the colors perfect took much longer. However, at the mention of value, his ears perked up. In the fortnight since his arrival, he had been unable to discover any paintings of significant value. Oh, the portrait gallery was filled with fine examples, but there was not much of a market for someone’s dead relatives. As of yet, he had not been able to enter the library or any of the family’s personal chambers. His presence there would be impossible to explain unless invited.