His eyes, a mix of anger and some undefined emotion, searched her face, tracing her lips with intense precision. “It’s locked because there is no need for me to enter your chamber.”
She flinched from the apparent dislike in that statement. Why was he so different than on the journey there? “What if I need to enter yours? How can I speak to you in private if we’re never alone together?” She realized that wasn’t quite fair, for they’d been alone in his office. She was the one who’d stormed out.
He pulled his gaze from her lips and stepped back. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”
Elizabeth’s face heated. She’d been angry enough she hadn’t realized until he stepped away that he was in a moderate state of undress himself. “I would like to go to Lambton tomorrow to visit the seamstress, with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. May I have use of the carriage and some pin money?”
“Not in the morning.” He pushed a hand through his hair, turning away. “I’ve arranged for my steward to go over your finances with you in the morning.”
That surprised her, but pleasantly. “Thank you for that. We planned it for afternoon.”
“Then yes. I shall tell him to provide you your allowance. You will take two footmen with you.”
Elizabeth studied his broad back, clad only in a shirt. Why wouldn’t he look at her? She shook her head, confused. When traveling, they’d kissed each night, before she went to share a room with Jane. They hadn’t done so once since reaching his home. Obviously, he found her lacking now that she was surrounded by his elegant friends and the splendor of Pemberley.
“Will that be all?” His voice carried a harsh edge.
“I suppose it will be.” She couldn’t help but regret his lack of attention. She’d come to enjoy, even long for, their evening embrace.
“Then leave, please.” He crossed to unlock and open the adjoining door. “I’ll lock the door behind you.”
That sparked her anger. “Very well.”
She stormed out, in so much as one could with bare feet on a plush carpet. She heard him lock the door behind her. Flinging herself into bed, Elizabeth fell into a fitful sleep.
The following morning, she tried to restore her good temper as she met with Mr. Darcy’s steward, for the man wasn’t to blame for her husband’s contrary ways. The steward gave Elizabeth a detailed explanation of her finances, including what she was expected to spend her money on. She had wide latitude. For example, he suggested zero to twenty percent on charity, saying it wasn’t her job to attend to the charities, but it was certainly appropriate to do so. She said she would, as Mr. Darcy had mentioned wishing her to, and she rather thought she would like to.
“Mr. Darcy said you will be given some of the family’s jewelry,” the steward said at one point. “Therefore, I don’t recommend you spend any money on that until you see what you’re receiving. You may prefer to have stones reset, rather than buy new pieces.”
Elizabeth nodded. All in all, it was a bit daunting. Darcy was certainly rich. Her private money was comparable to her father’s total income and her required expenses were few. She had a great deal of control over the household budget, but it was a different budget than her personal one. With that in mind, she set out to have a pleasant afternoon ordering clothing with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. She saw little of Mr. Darcy until dinner, where he was again withdrawn.
Chapter Seventeen – Advice Given
Mr. Bennet spoke little at breakfast, content to listen to those around him while he consumed the offerings of Mr. Darcy’s exceedingly skilled cook. A little urging from Elizabeth got Miss Darcy to state her intention of working on her French, before she lapsed back into the silence typical of her when more than a couple people were about. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst then talked of fishing. Mr. Bennet noted that his new son seemed out of sorts and cast longing looks Elizabeth’s way with mild frequency. Lizzy seemed not to notice, but cheerfully joined in the description of her trip to Lambton the afternoon before, though she permitted Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to tell most of the uninteresting tale.
Mr. Bennet was amused that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley continued to vie for Jane’s attention, each promising the most scenic, pleasant and even historically relevant walk. As Jane smiled at everyone and was polite to a fault, it was difficult for Mr. Bennet to tell if she preferred one of the gentlemen. Still, there was something in her eyes when she looked at Mr. Bingley that spoke of deeper feeling. Mr. Bennet hoped Bingley wasn’t the sort to only like a woman when she was fought over. He was convivial enough, but struck Mr. Bennet as slightly mercurial.
Though he said almost nothing throughout the meal, when everyone rose to go their separate ways for the remainder of the morning, Mr. Bennet happily concluded he could retire to the library with a clear conscious about having performed his social duties. Once there, he settled into his usual chair and opened the manuscript he’d left on the table beside it. Smiling in contentment, he began to read.
It was only two hours later when he realized he was tired of reading. He’d been at Pemberley for a few days and, while the library was still a wonder, Mr. Bennet had read enough for now. He hadn’t realized it was possible to reach such a state, but then he’d never had so much uninterrupted time to read before.
In Longbourn, there was always some crisis or event that required his attention. Besides, he’d read all the books in his home library at least once. There was no urgency to finish them to drive him to long hours of reading. He owned them, and there was a limit as to how many more he could buy, so they must be savored.
He closed the book, looking about the magnificent room. It struck him as oddly silent and empty. Could he possibly miss the interruptions? Could it be he enjoyed listening to his silly wife repeatedly make a fool of herself?
He stood and stretched, suddenly craving human company. He considered joining Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst for fishing, but Darcy was in a notably ill-humor and Mr. Hurst would doze off the moment he cast his line. Jane was walking, first with Colonel Fitzwilliam and then with Mr. Bingley. Lizzy was learning how to manage Pemberley, likely interesting but not something he should interrupt. He couldn’t recall what Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst planned for the day, but was sure he didn’t wish for their company or they for his.
That left Miss Darcy, who was pleasant to interact with when she wasn’t being overly shy. Mr. Bennet vaguely remembered her mentioning that she was going to study, or perhaps draw or paint. She did all three with frequency and he’d been more focused on his meal than her words. He read French, but spoke it badly. He certainly didn’t draw, although he enjoyed looking at drawings. He nodded to himself, heading for the library door. Whatever study Miss Darcy was engaged in, it was sure to be interesting enough for a short while.
A quick inquiry told him Miss Darcy was in the school room and where it was located. When he knocked on the door, she said, “Come in.”
The schoolroom was airy and white, with little to distract from lessons. It was much larger than needed, even if a lady of Pemberley were to birth a sizeable brood. Then, many rooms in Pemberley were more sizable than required. Miss Darcy was standing to one side, paintings and drawings strewn about her, leaning on walls and cluttering tables. She looked at him with wide eyes, her surprise at seeing him in her schoolroom unhidden.
She was terribly young, he thought, stepping inside. Much too young to have already ruined her life, though, thanks to Elizabeth, Miss Darcy hadn’t. He’d put his worry that Miss Darcy’s life had been traded for Elizabeth’s aside, for it was obvious Lizzy was well rewarded with Pemberley and Mr. Darcy, even if Darcy was often in a sour mood of late. He couldn’t even blame Mr. Darcy for all that had happened. Mr. Bennet’s youngest daughter, Lydia, was fifteen. Although she’d never behaved as badly as Miss Darcy had, she obviously would, given half a chance.
He carefully left the door open. His greeting died on his lips as his eyes scanned the artwork around her. Propped up all across the room were portrai
ts of one man. He was undeniably handsome. Most were done in pencil, but there were watercolors and a small painting in oil. Some were obviously childish attempts of a younger version of the man. Others were very skilled portraits of that same man, but him at about Mr. Darcy’s age.
“Mr. Wickham?” he asked, his gesture taking in the works.
She sighed. “Yes.”
“So many,” he said, coming farther into the room. She was quite skilled. Mr. Bennet hadn’t seen the drawing of Elizabeth that had led Darcy to her, but it was obvious his new son would have recognized her immediately from Miss Darcy’s work.
Miss Darcy pressed her lips together, her eyes drifting over the portraits. “Yes. Very many.”
He studied her, taking in her wistful expression. “They speak of a woman who was in love, not one who was carried off unwilling.”
“They do. I was, at first.”
“But not for long?” How lucky she was to have been given a second chance. Most young women, without the Darcy’s resources or his Lizzy’s kind heart, wouldn’t have had a choice once they set foot in a carriage with a man.
“Once we left Ramsgate, he showed his true colors.” Her tone was bitter.
Mr. Bennet’s first instinct was to reprimand her, for she must be more careful with her words. They cast doubt on Elizabeth’s version of the elopement, given in the foyer when they arrived. Instead, he decided leading her to that conclusion would do more good. “You mean, he showed his true nature before your governess left you alone? That makes her doubly reprehensible, and you more foolish.”
Miss Darcy turned wide eyes on him, her hands flying to her mouth. He shook his head. Her reaction was more incriminating than her words.
She dropped her hands. “I . . . I, that is . . .” she stammered, her face going white.
Mr. Bennet held up a staying hand. With a gentle soul like Miss Darcy, there was no need to torment. It was young women like his Lydia who needed an idea to all but bang them on the head in order to get it into their thoughts. “I already know the truth of what happened. I was simply giving a lesson in carelessness.” Carelessness had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
She swallowed. “You know?” she whispered.
He offered a kind smile. “Elizabeth and your brother told me.”
Her color returned, outrage and hurt sparking in her eyes. “They told you? Fitzwilliam said to keep it secret. He made me swear on my honor that I would never tell a soul aside from him and Richard. How many people know?”
“They only told me and Jane. As to anyone else, you’ll have to ask your brother.”
“How could my brother and Elizabeth do that?” Her voice was low and bitter. “I trusted them.”
Mr. Bennet contemplated his reply. He didn’t want to teach Miss Darcy any more about mistrust, or alienate her from two people who would do so much for her. “It was important to Elizabeth that Jane and I know the truth about why she remained, and why she wed so quickly. We are among the few people whose good opinion matters deeply to her. You wouldn’t want her to have to live with her father and dearest friend thinking ill of her, would you?”
Miss Darcy shook her head, looking dazed. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It hadn’t occurred to me she would be thought ill of.” She gazed at nothing, obviously reorganizing her thoughts.
“You don’t have to worry. We won’t spread the information,” he added in a soothing tone.
“No. Jane wouldn’t,” Miss Darcy said in her quiet voice. “She’s so kind and good. She never hinted, never acted as if I’m not . . .” She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“She values privacy, and sees people for who they are, not the mistakes they’ve made.” The fact that Miss Darcy was on a first name basis with Jane suggested that the two had quickly become friends, in spite of all the time Jane spent with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley.
Miss Darcy frowned, casting him a narrow-eyed, searching look. She crossed the room and closed the door. Mr. Bennet made no move to stop her. It was obvious she had something on her mind, and more likely it would damage her reputation more to have it overheard than to be closed in with him.
“What do you mean, the reason they wed so quickly? My brother told me it was over the duel. That would be reason enough, without telling you I ran off with Mr. Wickham voluntarily.”
He almost laughed. Now who had spoken out of turn, without enough thought? Obviously, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth didn’t wish Miss Darcy to feel overly responsible for their marriage. Blaming it solely on the duel made Wickham the key villain. He gestured to the portraits, keen to distract her from her question. “Why have you assembled these? Isn’t it a bit incriminating to have so many?”
She looked at him for a long moment, but eventually her gaze stole to her work, as if she couldn’t help but stare at Mr. Wickham. “It is. That’s why. I wanted to say goodbye.” Her voice was wistful again. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to see them.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt a private moment.” Perhaps he could make his escape before he said anything else he oughtn’t.
“That is all right.” She gestured to the portraits. “I’m going to burn these. I should have done so earlier, when I realized I wasn’t . . . that I wouldn’t need a reminder of him, his face.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, for who would wish to gaze on a spurned lover? “Some of them are very good. May I?” he asked, reaching for one.
She shrugged.
After examining the first, he returned it to its place. He walked around the room, picking up several for closer scrutiny. He came at last to the oil painting. It wasn’t precisely a miniature. It was only a face and the picture was about the size of his hand. He placed it on a chair that was one of the few unoccupied spaces. He added a pencil drawing that showed Mr. Wickham walking. Miss Darcy had managed to capture grace as well as a bit of swagger. He added a water color. How had she managed to capture the elusive quality of charm? She was a very gifted artist.
“It will be a shame to burn any of these,” he said, gesturing to the ones he’d collected. “You’re very skilled. Keeping a few of the best wouldn’t be incriminating. The trouble is in having so many.”
Her expression was resolved. “I have to let him go. These aren’t real. He isn’t like these pictures. I drew the man I thought I knew.”
“What about those?” he said, gesturing to the group of childish pictures. “They aren’t incriminating.”
She shrugged again. “I was ten when I drew them. They’re the silly work of a child. I didn’t capture his spirit, real or imagined.”
She hadn’t, but had employed surprising technical skill for a ten-year-old. “He sat for them?”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “I suppose it made me think he actually cared for me.”
Mr. Bennet found it sad that she had to give up every moment with Mr. Wickham. Yes, he was a vile man now, but he’d been kind to a ten year old child. “You may not have captured his true nature, but you did capture one thing. You captured his willingness to spend time with you.” He took in her mutinous expression. “I doubt he was investing the time in the hopes of eloping with you in five years.”
“No. He was pleasing my father by entertaining me and encouraging me in drawing, as he told my father,” she said bitterly. “Also he was pleasing his own ego. He didn’t have to do anything, just sit and talk about himself and believe he was so handsome as to be worth drawing over and over.”
Mr. Bennet was struck by the depths of her bitterness. She was too young to realize that such strong emotions often faded with age. He couldn’t convince himself the day wouldn’t come when she would look back and wish she’d kept a two or three of her best works, to reminisce over.
“Then burn them,” he said. He turned back to the three he’d placed on the chair. “But let me keep these. They’re too good to burn.” He offered a smile. “Someday, when you have an art exhibit, you can retrieve them from me and they will be so mixed in with the others, no
one will know you cared for him.”
She smiled briefly, but the fleeting pleasure disappeared. “You may if you help me light a fire.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. It was too warm a day for the fire to be lit, but it was laid. He lit it, taking in the satisfied look on her face as she started feeding her work to the flames.
She carried over a stack of the childish drawings, placing them on the fire one at a time to watch them blacken and burst into orange light before crumbling to ash. “Mrs. Younge said I should draw him because he brought out my talent,” Miss Darcy said, her eyes on Mr. Wickham’s smoldering form. “She would leave us alone for hours. I now know she was giving him a chance to court me.”
“I believe he did bring out your talent,” Mr. Bennet said.
Miss Darcy sighed, tossing another portrait on the flames. “Do you really think I could have an exhibit someday?”
“I’m no art critic, but your work was extraordinary.” He gave her a measured look. He wanted to say something to give this young woman, still so much a girl, hope for her future. “And once you are a great portrait painter, you can charge a great deal. You can save your money, invest it, and make yourself independent. You won’t have to worry what people think, find out, or say.”
That brought another smile to her lips, one which lasted longer. It too faded, but into a contemplative look, not a sorrowful one. Mr. Bennet could only hope he’d helped, for Miss Darcy seemed as if she needed a friend.
That was the last they spoke. He stayed with her until she had only one portrait remaining, aside from the three he’d claimed. Taking them, he offered a silent bow, but her eyes were too fixed on Mr. Wickham’s to notice. Mr. Bennet let himself out of the room, making it back to his quarters without incident. There, he wrapped the works carefully and placed them in the bottom of his trunk.
Chapter Eighteen – Impasse Reached
Foiled Elopement: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 15