Portraits of Pemberley Page 13

  “My dear brother! What a terrible homecoming. Who was that poor man?” Georgiana exclaimed.

  “I shall explain all later, we must get you to Pemberley and alert the authorities. Are you quite safe?”

  “We are perfectly fine. Mr. Milligan saw the curricle in time to avert a greater disaster. Is that not so Charlotte?”

  Charlotte Collins, shaken but unharmed, had wandered from the carriage, and now stood staring at the broken form of Matthew Jennings. A curious unnamable emotion registered on her features as she immediately recognized him. For despite his appearance, she was very familiar with his person. Giving a strangled cry of pain, Charlotte Collins collapsed to the ground in a faint.

  Part Three

  ~Thirty-four~

  Pemberley 1611….

  Isabel Darcy took one last look at what had been her home… her haven, but it was no longer. Now, Pemberley was simply walls and a roof, for there was no love inside. Having given her father the impression of acceptance, she had prepared carefully for her removal. But it would not be to become the bride of the dour Edward Cuthbert. At first, she had thought to give the arranged future a chance, but after a single meeting, the possibility of any happiness between them was gone.

  “You do realize that changes will need making once we are wed. The life of a vicar’s wife is not that of a socialite.”

  She had looked at him quizzically, anger threatening to bubble over where it had simmered since the man had first entered Pemberley. Standing beside her father, Isabel had smiled genuinely, displaying all the appropriate manners expected of one in her position, but it had been for naught. The newly ordained Reverend Cuthbert had appraised her person as one would a prize cow, even daring to put a finger on the lace of her gown. Staring into his eyes in defiance, Isabel swore she saw cruelty, masque behind the clerical collar. A life with him would be one of perpetual pain and misery. And after knowing what it was to be loved passionately, the comparison would be a living death. But she had voiced no objection, for how could a dutiful daughter tell her father that she was no longer fitting to be anyone’s virginal bride? Only the memory of the man who had shown her what it was to be truly alive kept Isabel from fleeing the room. Drifting into daydreams, the conversation had floated around her, not that Isabel’s opinion mattered. This was a business deal, not a love match. The pleasant expression fixed to her features was that forged from reflecting upon an earlier, happier time.

  “You cannot run from your obligations. I above all know that to be true. Why else would I be hiding out, awaiting a pardon from the pope that may never come. You have chosen a fugitive as a lover Isabel, what we have can only be fleeting. I would not have you regret this.”

  He had whispered those words softly into her ear after they had consummated their feelings, but she had no delusions of permanence. It had taken weeks of wearing him down. At first, Isabel had simply been curious about the moody dark man who painted in the gardens. Peeking into his studio while he worked, she knew he was aware of her presence, but chose to ignore it. Perhaps thinking she would tire of the game and leave, but it had only driven her to be bolder.

  “You may as well come in out of the sun. I will not be blamed should you expire in the heat,” he finally said by way of invitation, allowing her to sit quietly as he brushed paint with the care of a surgeon. Later, she posed for him. Not her entire figure, just hands, occupied in some mundane task. He never dared any impropriety, despite her attempts to seduce.

  “Careful Isabel, you may get more than you bargain for, and once offered, cannot be regained.”

  “I offer what only I have to give… and I give it willingly,” she had replied, attempting to take his hand, but it had pulled away as if touching fire.

  “I will not…” he protested, but it was without heart, eventually giving in to her.

  Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could hear the sound of his voice. Deep and rich, it was a sharp cry from the near falsetto of Edward Cuthbert. Not that it mattered anymore, none of it did. Micah was dead, and she would never marry Edward. The letter she received said he had been poisoned, from exposure to the very paints he mixed. But there had been rumors, rumors to delicate for a young lady’s ears. Murdered? As revenge for the life he took from another? Was that the way of it in Italy?

  Now, as the quarter moon dimly lit the night sky, Isabel led her mare from its stall. She would be gone from Pemberley, to a future that as yet lay unknown. Where did a woman go to start a life over? Solace was known to be found in convents, but she was not a religious person. Another lie would not be made simply to achieve escape, but that was a thought for tomorrow. Tonight, was for leaving. Taking one last look behind, Isabel wiped away a stray tear. Perhaps one day she would forgive her father… and he, her.

  ~Thirty-five~

  Pemberley,1816….

  It was not until nearly a fortnight after the death of Matthew Jennings that the residents of Pemberley began to regain a sense of normalcy. The body had been recovered and buried, and the contents of the curricle collected and returned. Throughout this time, Thomas Linder also recovered and spent a great deal of time explaining his actions. The fear of the gallows still threatened to stifle his tongue, but the calming presence of one Clara Smedly provided assurance in fair treatment from the Darcys.

  “His saving grace is the fact that he gave Jennings the false paintings and not the real ones. There is no crime against duplication, only the fraudulent sale of, or theft of the original,” Darcy said as he and Elizabeth discussed recent events. All of the original paintings had been safe inside the hidden cupboard behind the wardrobe in Linder’s chamber, all save the mystery painting. It had barely escaped total destruction in the carriage accident, having been buffered by Jennings’ own clothes.

  “Jennings must have lied about it’s worth, but I am content to simply have it back,” Elizabeth agreed.

  Just that morning, the local magistrate had declared the investigation closed, with the guilty party having met his punishment by accidental death. Any suggestion that his demise could have been caused by Darcy’s pursuit was disregarded.

  “You had the right to stop him sir, his guilt drove him to his own death. That is how my report shall read,” the inspector assured and took his leave.

  Correspondence had also arrived with news of the townhouse. An interested party from Scotland had made an offer, finding the history of the house fascinating, although morbid.

  “Scotland is filled with houses where murders took place, but I do wonder what happened to Mrs. Winston and Cook. They have yet to be found, but it is rather easy for women to hide in plain sight,” Elizabeth reasoned.

  “Indeed, my father never had cause to suspect any sort of illicit behavior. Not once in nearly two decades. They managed to conceal their deeds rather well.”

  “It is too bad about that poor murdered girl. I wish we could do something for her, but it has been years.”

  “I have already seen to that. My solicitor was able to find where she was buried, and thanks to the testimony of James, we know that she was no prostitute, just an unfortunate maid who overheard the wrong people. I must say, I have never seen that grizzled old coachman so pleasant. It was almost as if a burden of silence was lifted. I have arranged for a proper stone to be set, it is the least we can do.”

  “Agreed, but it is a terrible tragedy. I blame Joseph Bartleston for everything. It happened under his own roof and he did nothing about it. Your father only came after his death and was rarely there.”

  “He was an addict…opium. One more smuggled thing I suppose. The Watson’s probably kept him well under its influence and then continued the business. I blame Mrs. Watson more. She had the opportunity to stop once her husband died, but instead choose to use her son and his connections.”

  “Until now…I believe you have done a great service, Mr. Darcy.”

  “You are biased. Jennings was only one of perhaps hundreds of people involved in illegal smuggling. There will
always be another to take his place, but not in a Darcy house.”

  “No, not in a Darcy house…not ever again.”

  ~Epilogue~

  One month later…

  Elizabeth Darcy smiled as she stood back from the paintings. In truth, she was pleased with the result of her portrait as her twin smiled down at her from its place above the sitting room mantle. Beside it, although barely fitting for space, hung that of Darcy. If she had to be on display, she was not doing it without him. But it was the others, one matching in size, and the other smaller, more intimate scene that she loved best. A twinge of jealousy emerged each time she studied the figures, wishing that the images were of herself and Darcy, but the prospect of sitting for such an exposing display was impossible. No painter, however talented could ever capture what she felt for him.

  “If you could not be together in life, you can be together here forever… or at least as long as I have a say about it,” she said aloud. There was no reply to her statement, but feeling fanciful, Elizabeth believed that approval was given. It was nice to have some quiet after so much chaos. Even the absence of Georgiana and Charlotte was a blessing in disguise. They had only stayed at Pemberley long enough for the inquest into Matthew Jennings death to be resolved before returning to Rosings together. Charlotte, recovering from her initial shock, wore a wistful smile when Elizabeth visited her chamber the evening of that terrible day.

  “He was the one, wasn’t he?”

  Charlotte nodded, but did not shed any tears. Less than a fortnight after Elizabeth had left Rosings, she had begun her monthly courses. “I was mistaken about a baby, but I do not regret my transgression. It has brought me closer to Mr. Collins. We might still be living in that strange limbo of a marriage if not for Mr. Jennings.”

  Elizabeth eyed her oddly and wondered if Charlotte had somehow injured her head when she fainted, but said nothing. Charlotte was a practical person and if this rational gave her peace, so be it. It was not necessary for Elizabeth to understand. As for Georgiana, the attachment for Lady Catherine was disclosed, giving great relief, yet sadness to her brother.

  “Aunt Catherine is not well. I did not wish to trouble you so, when there is nothing to be done.”

  “Has she seen a physician? Surely there is something…”

  “Yes, and no… it is her wish to die as she pleases…and you well know that Aunt Catherine must have her way. Do not let on that I have told you, I promised to keep it secret… even from Anne.”

  With this knowledge, Darcy and Elizabeth had waved them away, with promises to write and be kept informed of any significant news. It was a bittersweet parting, but one that finally allowed for a sense of lightness, leaving them to contemplate happier times. Still gazing at the mystery painting, Elizabeth felt Darcy’s arms around her waist.

  “Well Mrs. Darcy… it appears that we are finally alone again… what do you propose we do first?”

  Elizabeth cast Darcy a seductive smile as she took his hand and led him above stairs. Perhaps it was time to let go of the past and plan for the future. With a bit of luck, as well as practice, there would soon be a new generation of Darcys to fill the family gallery.