Chapter 12

Elizabeth gathered enough of her senses away from the house to decide on what she would write to Jane. A letter full of delicate apologies for causing pain with her allusions to Mr Bingley in her last letter alongside her energetic assurances regarding Mr Bingley and Miss Darcy was all she could manage to decide upon before it began to rain. She could do nothing more, recognizing the gross impropriety in making any illusions to Darcy’s interference nor could she state her hopes for a happier conclusion with feeling of certainty.

In truth, she feared to stir any false hopes within her sister. She thought of Charlotte’s opinion of Jane and Bingley with a heavy sigh. There was no knowing what such a long separation might do when a gentleman who moved about so often in the world, believing the object of his affections indifferent.

Her second letter, written on the impulse of the moment, would see neither wax nor sand. Though the letter was addressed to Jane, she could never send it. That right was lost to her with the first secret she kept, but pouring her heart out to Jane was a habit of such long-standing to make her sister the natural recipient.

Jane never failed to see her merits nor failed to attribute her with even more merits than she perhaps deserved. Jane’s goodness, and her utter inability to be otherwise, prevented her from completely understanding anyone not as good as herself. Once the letter began, Elizabeth felt a little better, detailing every hurt and disappointment to the one person who would have nothing but sympathy for them.

Elizabeth wished she could send the letter. The world would be a better place with more truth, she thought then paused. Darcy was truthful, painfully so. She decided on truth and kindness both, conveniently forgetting that they were as often adversaries as not.

Elizabeth dipped her pen back into the inkpot, happened to glance up at the silhouette of her sister hanging in its prominent place above her table, and her lips began to quiver again. Ireland loomed before her as another world, where she would be more separated from all she had known. Removing the frame from the wall, Elizabeth placed it on the table with her books, next to her open trunk.

She inhaled sharply at the sound of a knock, then exhaled in relief at Georgiana’s quiet, tentative voice.

“Can I assist you, Mrs Darcy? I promised Fitzwilliam I would not disturb you, but if I can…” The words trailed off and a look of concern suffused over Georgiana’s pale features. Elizabeth blushed at being caught out, following her gaze at the scattered pile of letters alongside the silhouette.

“You miss your family,” concluded Georgiana without a hint of hesitation. At Elizabeth’s wondering look, she retreated into her normal shyness, explaining haltingly, “I did the same when I first went to school. I thought I would break my heart.”

The thought of Jane brought a sheen of tears back into Elizabeth’s eyes. With an irritated shake of her head, she began gathering up her letters, tucking them all between her books. She said with forced gaiety, “I have been a little homesick, but it does not signify.”

“I think it does,” Georgiana whispered with folded hands, trying to cover her agitated dismay. “I fear I can never replace any of your sisters, but I wish…I want to be a true sister to you…Elizabeth. I have been too occupied in my own troubles, or I would have seen your unhappiness. I am very sorry.”

Elizabeth managed a genuine smile. “I would like that very much, but you should not think you have neglected me. I worried that my liveliness was too much for you.”

Feeling very brave, Georgiana reached out to clasp Elizabeth’s hand with cold fingers. “I-I have been a little afraid.”

Elizabeth exclaimed at the term, but Georgiana merely smiled. “You have been very kind, but I have never been brave. I departed Ramsgate shaking in my shoes.”

“What is the matter, Georgiana?”

“I…I have never spoken of it without tears.” Georgiana was uncertain if she should be relieved or not, for the bitter pain and disappointment were as strong as ever.

“Your brother seems rather knowledgeable about art,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “I know little of the subject, but some of these paintings appear very fine.”

“Many of the Darcys have collected art, and my brother is no different,” replied Georgiana easily. “The ones in the portrait gallery are mostly old, valuable family pieces, with the exception of Venus. He removed it to Mama’s – your – parlour last spring, saying he could not bear to have it taken to the attics.”

“Too many complaints from the tourists?” inquired Elizabeth, much amused by the thought of tourists reacting to the very naked, sensual Venus.

Georgiana nodded with only a slight blush. “He replaced the painting with my crayon drawings. They truly are not very fine, but he insisted they were charming. ‘Everyone wants to see the accomplishments of the lady of the house,’ he said.”

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. It sounded a little forced to her ears, but she could not help it. “Well, you shall have to display twice as many of your accomplishments to make up for my lack of them.”

“I am not very accomplished,” whispered Georgiana to Elizabeth’s doubtful expression. Elizabeth decided to hold her tongue and refrain from embarrassing the young girl.

“Let me draw you,” Georgiana said suddenly. “Fitzwilliam has asked me to draw again, and I should like you to be my first subject, as a present to him.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, imagining Mr Darcy would rather be presented with any other subject at the moment than her, then replied in the lightest tone she could affect, “I would hardly do justice to your talent, and your brother might not consider it much of a gift, seeing as he looks daily upon the original.”

Georgiana protested as much as such a girl could protest, but Elizabeth declared she could not sit for her after having cried for most of the afternoon.

The next morning, however, she found herself obliged to sit prettily in the window seat of Georgiana’s upstairs parlour. Georgiana had taken such delight in the prospect and begged until her sister could hardly justify the spoiling of her pleasure. She turned Elizabeth toward the light and tilted her head in consideration. “Come with me,” she said decisively. Elizabeth followed into Georgiana’s room, glancing at the dolls sitting on the bureau.

Georgiana began to open up the drawers, pulling out a variety of scarves, then ringing for her maid. “I saw these in a fashion plate of my mother’s once, in the hair with morning dress. It would suit your features.”

Nancy came quickly, seemed to know exactly what Georgiana wished, and set about unpinning Elizabeth’s hair. Within a half-hour, Elizabeth’s curls were perfectly arranged about her shoulders with scarves woven around her head in imitation of the earlier fashions of their mothers.

Georgiana then marched her into her parlour, sat her back at the window and began to work. Elizabeth tried not to discomfort Georgiana by staring, but the calm pleasure on her sister’s young face was an expression unknown to her. Elizabeth observed her for a moment, then returned to her book on housekeeping.

“Elizabeth,” Georgiana said her name slowly, as if unaccustomed to the liberty, “you are frowning.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together then managed an amused smile. “Keep that expression, if you can,” Georgiana responded with enthusiasm, directing her gaze back and forth between Elizabeth and the canvas, her movements indicating a portion of her skill.

She returned her attention to her book and had almost grasped the need for one or two of Mrs Reynolds’ journals when Darcy said, “Georgiana! How do you like your room?” in a voice indicating his apparent pleasure at finding her thus employed.

Elizabeth glanced up from her book in time to see Georgiana rise from her chair with eyes full of almost painful reverence. For Georgiana’s sake, Elizabeth greeted Darcy with every measure of normal civility. Her fingers clinched around the edge of the windowseat, beneath her skirts, slightly trembling.

“Mrs Darcy,” he said with considerable surprise. After an awkward pause, he cleared his throat and turned back to his sister. “You are painting again?”

“Elizabeth agreed to sit for me. Does she not look lovely?”

Elizabeth blushed and decided she must speak up, unable to bear the thought of a forced compliment. “Georgiana, you must not tease Mr Darcy into a response. Our sister has been searching through old issues of fashion magazines.”

“Georgiana, you chose your subject well.”

His simple answer did not satisfy Elizabeth. “I know you are teasing, Mr Darcy. My portrait is unlikely to satisfy the most discriminating tastes, in spite of Georgiana’s talent. My beauty has certainly been easily withstood by some.”

“Not so,” he replied with a glance at his sister. “Some beauty cannot be discovered in a crowded ballroom.”

“Like some characters I have met,” Elizabeth answered with a toss of her head.

“Elizabeth,” Georgiana interjected softly, “your movement is disturbing my light.”

Elizabeth apologized and began to wish the steward would come soon. Darcy continued: “To understand the character of another is a more difficult task than Georgiana’s sketch. It becomes impossible when the artist himself is biased or inexperienced in the method.”

“Perhaps there are some methods an artist would rather not learn,” she retorted, forcing herself to hold perfectly still. “Or perhaps the subject itself is flawed, and the artist captures the essentials well enough. As you said once yourself, there is a defect in every nature.”

“Which also extends to the artist.”

At Georgiana’s wide-eyed look, Elizabeth smiled at her. “If you will paint me ten times more beautiful than I actually am, I will be satisfied. I have seen those artists who are too experienced, believing they see more than is possible with human nature. That bias also leads to mischief.”

“I would rather have an accurate sketch than one based on either faulty premise.”

“You heard him, Georgiana. He wishes to sit for you after you have done with me. Do you think such a flawless countenance will be easier or more difficult to capture?”

Poor Georgiana, who understood enough of the conversation to realize there was more at stake than she could decipher, finally ventured to say, “I have heard that husbands and wives make very poor subjects, since the other spouse is never satisfied with the performance.”

“Well said,” Darcy replied smilingly. “I am certain to find pleasure in any painting of yours.”

“One generally does find happiness in the pleasure of a beloved sister,” Elizabeth added quietly. She turned her attention back to her book, missing Darcy’s mixed expression of surprise and shame.

When he spoke again, she was startled by the gentleness in his tone. “Did you find your way indoors before the rain began?”

Elizabeth shifted gingerly, wondering what she should tell him. She finally answered with her usual forthrightness, “I was caught unaware, I fear, and forced to take shelter in the ruins, but you should not worry for me.  I was not spoilt by a little water.”

“I was not worried. I knew you would find shelter there if you kept to the river.”

When Darcy remembered his steward and took himself off, Elizabeth stared after him with astonished eyes. She relaxed her harsh grip upon the windowseat, wincing a little as the blood rushed back into her fingers. The rain. Had she not been so angry and preoccupied, she might have seen the grey skies before leaving the house.  Her husband had apparently noticed and thought to caution her, not to censure or restrict her.

Elizabeth twisted her fingers together as the throbbing began to subside.  Her misgivings and regrets were hardly lightened by the conclusion that she had misjudged him.  Again.

Go to Chapter 13