Inspiration

by Maria Grace

  “Mr. Gardiner,” Mrs. Gardiner released Elizabeth and approached her husband, “pray forgive me for interrupting, but I am much fatigued, and poor Elizabeth’s arm is inadequate for my support. Would you take me?” She extended her hand toward him.

  “You will excuse me, sir?” He dipped his head and tucked his wife’s hand in the crook of his arm to walk slightly ahead of Darcy.

  Yes, it seemed far too convenient and a little conspiratorial. Had it been anyone else, he would have excused himself back to the house with the sensation of a rat avoiding a trap. But this was entirely different. The Gardiners were rapidly becoming his favorite among the many Bennet relations with whom he was already acquainted.

  Darcy dropped back a bit to walk beside Miss Elizabeth. “A party will join me early tomorrow, and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”

  She stiffened a mite but did not comment further.

  “There is also one other person in the party who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”

  She looked up at him, scanning his face. Was she—yes, it seemed she understood all he implied but did not say. “I would be very pleased to make her acquaintance.”

  She was pleased by something he had done! Pleased!

  His heart thundered, resounding in his ears, as heat surged through his veins. Had he been warm at all since that day in Kent? Quite possibly not—and he would relish it for every moment he had.

  They arrived at the Gardiners’ carriage far too soon. But he was permitted to hand the ladies into the carriage. She had permitted his touch!

  His head swam with the possibility—perhaps he had been forgiven, or at least offered a second chance by a muse convinced of his repentance.

  And he would not fail.

  He could not.

  No sooner did the Gardiners’ carriage disappear down the road, but Darcy dashed into his storage room turned shrine—his attic studio had already been emptied into that room. Raw, unfettered energy surged through every bone, every nerve, every tendon. Like a fire lit by lightning, it flared and spread into the entirety of his being. Who knew how long it might last? It could be a very fleeting thing—the last opportunity he might have to put brush to canvas. Only a fool would waste time eating or sleeping at such a moment.

  And such a moment it was. In the candlelight, the essence of his muse blossomed on the canvas in its purest, truest form—her eyes and her lips as she smiled on him, genuinely smiled upon him—an expression he had never been blessed with before. As dawn rose, streaming rosy light through the windows, he had not finished, but the piece was complete enough that no matter what happened, he could finish it. He would finish it. The crowning glory on this singular study demanded by his muse.

  He set his brush aside, sank into a chair, and slept, slumped against the windowsill.

  A few hours later, he roused with the sounds of visitors arriving. Bingley—in the morning? How unheard of! And how perfect. With a small amount of effort, he could prevail upon Bingley to pay a call, and they could be off to call upon the inn before midday! He ran upstairs for fresh clothes.

  Bingley received the idea with all the vigor with which he received most suggestions of diversion, perhaps just a mite more. Soon, he, Bingley, and Georgiana were bundled into Darcy’s carriage on the way to Lambton.

  ∞∞∞

  Georgiana and Bingley chatted as they drove. How did they find so much to talk about? Thankfully, they allowed Darcy quiet space for his thoughts. He could not have conversed with them even if he wanted to.

  So much depended on this exchange of civilities. It had to go well; it had to be right. What would he say to her? How would he introduce his friend and his sister? Was there any way he could pour his heart into those few words in such a way that she might truly understand?

  As they approached the inn, a face—hers, it had to be—appeared in the window. Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but it seemed she was watching for their arrival. It was hard to frame that possibility as anything but a good omen. Still, his heart beat faster, and his throat constricted as he handed Georgiana down from the carriage. A serving girl led them up a dark, squeaky staircase to the Gardiners’ rented chambers, the best the inn had to offer.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner greeted them graciously, but it was Miss Elizabeth’s reaction that most interested him. He introduced Bingley and Georgiana, utterly forgetting anything he had planned to say. Still, she received them with all the warmth of a welcomed acquaintance.

  Miss Elizabeth seemed to take particular interest in Georgiana. Though the urge to protect his still vulnerable sister rose up, something held him back. Perhaps it was the soft light in Miss Elizabeth’s eyes or the delicacy of her voice. But it was clear: Miss Elizabeth would be as gentle and tender as Georgiana deserved.

  Of course, she would. Would his muse have selected a less worthy woman?

  Bingley quickly commanded the conversation, as he usually did, making enquiries after the health and happiness of her family and asking in a more general fashion after the news in Hertfordshire. It seemed he was hoping for some specific piece of information but was not yet willing to ask.

  Though he listened carefully, Darcy could detect no note of anger or bitterness in her responses.

  But the barest crease in Miss Elizabeth’s brow suggested a touch of lingering sadness, no doubt in regard to her sister’s disappointment. He could not fault her for that feeling; in fact, it was to her credit that she might feel so deeply for Miss Bennet.

  Remarkably, he caught her stealing glances at him. It was difficult to discern at first, but no, she was watching him—but why? Her face betrayed no trace of the animosity he had seen at Hunsford. But what was she thinking behind her mild expression? Her mind was far too lively to be as quiescent as her demeanor.

  At one point their gazes met, and instead of turning away, embarrassed, she offered him the teasing, tantalizing hint of a smile.

  Was it possible? Could it be true? By some unearned miracle, had she changed her opinion of him? It seemed too much to hope that his letter could have made that material a difference in her perceptions of him. But if it did, he would not question his good fortune. Unfortunately, the tantalizing possibility rendered him mute and unable to ferret out any further information.

  A quarter of an hour passed, and neither Bingley nor Georgiana had shown any sign of being ready to depart. So, too, did the Gardiners appear to take pleasure in the company. What else could he do but content himself to remain far longer than a call should linger.

  Perhaps that was a mistake, not for the sake of his company, but for himself. After half an hour in her company, he was loath to depart. How could he leave when she had smiled upon him?

  Bingley, in his usual haphazard fashion, offered the remedy without even knowing. He made a light-hearted remark about Pemberley’s excellent victuals. Georgiana glanced back at Darcy. Of course, they must be invited to dinner!

  In mere moments, the invitation expanded from just the evening to all of the next day. He bade Mr. Gardiner come to fish and the ladies even hinted that they might call upon Georgiana in the morning. A whole day with her at Pemberley? It was too great a boon to comprehend.

  The enthusiastic acceptance of the invitations soothed the bitterness of their departure, at least enough that he could pass the remainder of the day in tolerably good spirits. Bingley deserved as much for the immeasurable service he had just rendered.

  ∞∞∞

  The next morning, near dawn, Darcy made his way to his shrine. There was something about the light of dawn as it crept across his paintings. He wanted, he needed to see his paintings of her in that light. Perhaps it was that light that would assure him he had done justice to her. Perhaps it was just his fickle muse. Either way, he would not resist.

  His muse welcomed him into that space with a golden
glow that he could almost hear, bidding him join her. Could a voice sound like sunlight?

  His most recent creation, silhouetted by a dawn-filled window, called to him. His spine tingled, and he reminded himself to take a breath. That look in her eye from yesterday as she had regarded him with favor—and could it be, possibly some affection—was captured perfectly.

  What sort of sign was this—that she would be there with him and never leave, or that now her image was committed to canvas, she would leave him forever? Either could be true.

  Surely his muse could not be so cruel as to take her from him forever. Surely not! Whatever it took to make certain she would remain with him, he would do it.

  No matter what.

  The sunshine voice said something that he could not quite discern. The tone was not angry but perhaps stern? A warning, perhaps? As long as his muse was not angry with him, it was enough.

  ∞∞∞

  At the earliest moment that their arrival would be considered polite, the Gardiners’ coach made its way up the road to Pemberley Manor. They were welcomed in, and the ladies were shown to the parlor to sit with Georgiana, her companion, and the Bingley sisters.

  The gentlemen excused themselves to enjoy some sport fishing at the river. Would that he could have excused himself from that pleasure to sit with the ladies, but that would be far too irregular. Better to show himself disciplined and be a respectable host to the gentlemen. Certainly, Miss Elizabeth and his muse would approve.

  Naturally, the gentlemen enjoyed the enterprise for several very long hours. Excruciatingly long hours. Thankfully, Bingley was there to make small talk and entertain the men with Darcy’s participation only required for commentary about Pemberley, its grounds and buildings. He was just the sort of friend Darcy needed: the sort who could make him look hospitable and generous even when he was not feeling it.

  When the gentlemen tired of their sport—truly, how could they have dragged it out so long in the first place?—they returned to the house to share refreshments with the ladies in the drawing room.

  Darcy lingered back a few moments. Miss Elizabeth often left him so tongue-tied that it might be wise to take a few moments to prepare a few intelligent sentences of conversation in case he was so called upon.

  “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the Derbyshire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.” That was Miss Bingley’s voice.

  Darcy gasped. The dreadful, conniving creature. He had recently begun to question her character; this was proof she was worse than he thought. If he suspected she knew about the goings-on at Ramsgate, he would march into the room and throw her out directly. But she could not, so he would tolerate her presence a little longer.

  “I cannot imagine why you would suggest such a thing, Miss Bingley. What would give you to think so?” That was Mrs. Gardiner. Calm, level, and direct. No wonder Miss Elizabeth esteemed her so. What an excellent woman she was, the kind Georgiana needed to know.

  A few moments later, Miss Elizabeth ducked out of the drawing room. Where was she going? Had Miss Bingley’s remark distressed her that much?

  Of course, it had.

  Darcy followed at a discreet distance. She might not desire company, but he had to make certain she was well.

  She walked briskly toward the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds must have taken them there when they toured Pemberley. It must be a good sign that she would turn to his favorite room in the moment of her distress.

  He peeked through the gallery door. No! Heavens no! He had left the door to his private room open! She headed directly toward it as if drawn there by a force beyond herself.

  She stepped inside and gasped. The sound—not anguish, not joy, but what was it? —reverberated through the gallery and through his soul.

  He ran for the room, almost colliding with her just inside the door. The morning sun embraced her, invited her farther in as though she belonged here. And it was true; she did—his muse had declared it so.

  She ignored him and moved among the paintings in an atmosphere heavy with the nutty fragrance of drying linseed oil, staring at each one, saying nothing. Every muscle clenched, rooting him in place, lest he disturb her reverie. Each lift of her brow, tilt of her head, widening of her eyes, all spoke more than mere words alone could convey. At long last, she reached his newest work, leaning close to peer at the still-wet brush strokes.

  Finally, she turned to him, eyes wide. “I do not understand.”

  He threw his head back, laced his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “What can I say?”

  “So many? Why?”

  “I do not know how to explain.”

  “Surely, there must be a reason.” She stepped a little closer.

  “There is often no reason why one’s muse demands what it does.”

  “A muse?”

  Did she have to ask such a thing? No one had ever dared ask him to explain. But no, she had a right. If anyone should know, it was she. He could not meet her gaze, though. “A spirit, an inspiration, a demanding mistress who insists an artist obey her commands lest she abandon him to a world weathered and colorless.”

  She wandered back to his first painting of the nymph. “Tell me about this one.”

  He followed her and stood just behind her shoulder. “We had just arrived in Hertfordshire. I had not been able to paint in months. I was near Bedlam. Then we went to the assembly, and I saw you there. That night, my muse returned to me and insisted I paint. This was the form that took shape.”

  “You cannot see the nymph’s face.”

  “Bingley said the same thing to me—and it tormented me until I understood. It was because I did not know you then. You see her face becoming clearer in the later pieces of the study.” He beckoned her toward those.

  Miss Elizabeth stopped at each, hand clasped behind her back, studying it, not with a critical eye, but one that seemed fascinated—dare he even say she seemed drawn to what she saw?

  “She is lovely.” A lovely rosy pink spread across her cheeks.

  “I am pleased she meets your approval. I covet your good opinion.” Pray she would grant it!

  “I still do not understand.”

  How could she not? “I have explained it all to you.”

  Her brow knit tight, and she chewed her lower lip, her head shaking slowly. “You have? I do not recall ever speaking about your paintings.”

  “We did not. But I did tell you nonetheless.”

  “Pray forgive me, I must ask, when?” Her wide eyes suggested she truly wanted to know.

  He swallowed hard, barely able to force his trembling voice to whisper. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest.

  “I meant that then, and I am afraid I mean it now as well.”

  Oh, the look she gave him. Astonishment. Relief? Yes, it seemed so. And—dare he believe it—joy? Oh, pray that was indeed what he saw—

  Mrs. Reynold’s rapid knock echoed off the door. “Pray forgive me, sir!”

  It was difficult not to growl at her. Treating the servants civilly, especially one as valued as Mrs. Reynolds, was not just wise, it was right. Still though, could she have contrived to appear at a worse possible moment?

  “A servant just came from the inn with letters for the young lady. He said she had mentioned she had been anticipating them and thought they might be urgent.” Mrs. Reynolds held up a silver salver with several folded missives.

  The inn’s servant thought there might be some reward in it for his efforts, no doubt. “Give him a coin for his troubles.”

  She passed the letters to Miss Elizabeth and beat a hasty retreat.

  He forced himself to keep an appropriate distance. It would not do to appear to want to read over her shoulder. “Is there some concern from Hertfordshire? Are you anticipating some news of import?”

  She shrugged, her
brows flashing up just a bit. “It is not like Jane to delay in writing. I have been concerned, but there is no more specific worry than that.”

  “Pray, take a moment to read over your letters and ease your mind. Our conversation can, it should, wait for your mind to be at ease.” Moreover, it would give him a few moments to compose a proper renewal of his offer just in case it was wanted.

  If only he would be so favored!

  She was right. His first attempt had been contemptable—utterly and completely. Though he had not planned on renewing his addresses today, failing to seize upon the opportunity now would be criminal. If he tried, he must ensure it was properly done.

  She glanced from the letters, to him, and back again. “I believe you are right. Thank you for your understanding.”

  He brought a stool to her and retreated to the window to give her a measure of privacy.

  She tittered under her breath and murmured. “This one was misdirected—no wonder, for Jane wrote the direction very ill indeed.”

  Excellent! That should set her mind at ease—a much better state for her to receive him in. It had been a mistake to look at her, though. He could not tear his eyes away. Was it really invading her privacy if he watched her as she read? It was hardly as though he could detect the content of the letter from his vantage point.

  No angry warning jabbed at him. Surely, it would be all right.

  The gentle glow in her eyes must be for her sister. Such a kind and affectionate heart she had. Would she one day hold the same sentiments toward Georgiana? Was it too much to hope that she would? There was no more deserving recipient than she, and, no doubt, Miss Elizabeth would be unfailingly kind toward her regarding her troubles with—that man. And perhaps, just perhaps, Georgiana might be a good sort of sister to Miss Elizabeth as well. Surely, she would not repine a younger sister who was not silly and romping.

  No! Something was wrong, very wrong. Her hand trembled, and she did not breathe. Her eyes were wide, shining with tears. What had happened?

  She tore the second letter open; tiny gasps for breath escaping as she did. Her hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the pages. How could he not go to her to comfort her? But how could he invade when he had not been invited?