Portraits of Pemberley Page 5

  “I hate to disappoint, but what you have is just what we in the field call a “copy piece”. Students of art often practice painting relatives and those they know. It allows them to see variations of expression over a longer period of time than regular formal sittings allow. There is talent, of that be assured, but as to value…I am afraid that it is esthetic only. The young lady…Isabel Darcy you said? Perhaps she was encouraged to paint? Rather accomplished, but that is all.”

  Seeing a fleeting disappointment in Elizabeth Darcy’s face, Jennings took his growing scheme one step further.

  “If you like, I can have another expert examine it as well. A second opinion?”

  “No, that is not necessary. We were simply curious,” Darcy insisted and reached forward to rewrap the painting.

  “Of course, and I can see why, it is a beautiful piece. Perhaps you would allow me to do a bit of restorative work? Fashion a complimentary frame?”

  “Oh! You have done so much already, we couldn’t impose that upon you as well,” Elizabeth declared.

  “Not at all, I would be honored. Call it a late wedding gift.”

  Elizabeth looked to her husband for confirmation and was bestowed with an agreeable nod. When the larger portrait of Isabel was moved, she wanted to place the smaller one nearby. It may not be valuable to the world, but it held sentiment for her. If only they could learn the story behind what was clearly a deep and reciprocated love.

  “We would be pleased.”

  “Well then, it is settled. I promise to take great care and send it along with the man to Pemberley. Are you ready to meet some of London’s best new artists?”

  With a smile returning to her features, Elizabeth took one last look at the painting before it was covered with a length of linen. Yes, it was time for a more festive activity. Following the curator out of the restoration room, they once again entered the rabbit’s warren of hallways, but were soon inside a large private gallery. Here, a number of patrons wandered about in the cool stillness, but different from the formal sections, it possessed an area dedicated to artists in action. The polished stone floors had been covered with heavy tarps to protect against spatters of paint, and folding screens separated the areas from each other to provide an intimate vignette for exposition. Finished works, all for sale, were displayed on the walls of the partitions. Currently, three men worked on canvases of variable sizes. The first, a landscape, was a blur of colors as a central image appeared to project from its center. The artist, an unkempt man of middle years, splashed paint in a haphazard fashion. Onlookers stood at a safe distance to observe yet escape damage to their clothing.

  “JMW Turner… a bit of a sourpuss, but all the rage at the moment. His subject matter tends to blend nature with new-fangled machines of industry. Not much for portraiture, but definitely interesting. Do go closer, but have a care, he tends to be quite messy.”

  Elizabeth, fascinated by the man’s flailing arms as he dipped his brush and slathered paint boldly. His eyes focused intently, ignoring the small contingent of watchers.

  “Move back please! You are blocking my light!” he snapped without pausing in his labors, flicking a dull yellow paint as he did.

  Murmurs of laughter followed, but it did little to dissuade the onlookers. Not wanting to intrude, Elizabeth moved to where his completed paintings were displayed.

  “Dutch Boats in a Gale” he calls it,” Jennings supplied.

  “He does have a way of capturing the emotion of a storm, but…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed. She hated to insult anyone, but there was something about the man’s work that reminded her of Longbourn’s aged handyman.

  “But nothing… he is clearly shortsighted. A good pair of spectacles would be of great benefit. Definitely not the man for your portrait,” Darcy whispered in her ear.

  Nodding in agreement, they moved along to where a slight young man sat opposite a well-dressed matron and child. It was obvious that she was the object of his newest work. With thin pale hair falling in his eyes, his hands worked swiftly with a piece of charcoal to capture their outlines as the child, no more than three or four years, shifted beside his mother.

  “Mama? Are we done?”

  “Just a few more minutes sweetheart,” she soothed, but after another minute, gave in.

  “Master Linder, I fear that Henry has exhausted my patience. Tomorrow?”

  “Of course, Madam…” the painter replied with a sigh. Putting down his charcoal, he wiped his hands on a cloth and tucked the canvas away before bidding his client a good afternoon. It was then that he saw the Darcys as well as the curator examining his finished work. The couple whispered furtively between them, with much nodding and smiles of approval. Moving to stand behind them, he clasped his hands demurely behind his back and waited to be acknowledged. Although this meeting had been carefully arranged, Thomas Linder beamed under their praise. He was not without talent, but often, that was not enough. As with others like himself, Thomas had always dreamed of taking his place beside the greatest painters, but unfortunately, one had to eat and pay expenses. Commissions, while often generous, were too fleeting and far between to sustain livelihood. As a result, he had been forced to take less than honorable work from Matthew Jennings. Now, as he awaited the latest victims in a crafted ring of thievery, his pulse raced slightly. Guilt never ceased to fill him with each conquest, but a man must survive.

  “Thomas Linder… at your service,” he said with a bow as introductions were made. Forcing a smile that he hoped was genuine, he took the proffered hand of Mr. Darcy. It was a gesture of equality that was unexpected, as was the conversation that followed. The couple, although of a station far above his own, treated him like a peer asking polite questions about his craft which he deftly answered to their satisfaction. Clearly the Darcys were underserving of such planned duplicity. Swallowing heavily as he felt the critical eyes of Matthew Jennings upon him, Thomas played his part in their ruse. He was well acquainted with what happened to those who tried to cross Matt Jennings, and did not desire the same end. To his great fortune, the Darcys made their decision quickly.

  “If you are available, Mrs. Darcy and I would very much like you to consider painting her portrait. As it would require travel to our home in Derbyshire, you will be well compensated. Will three hundred pounds suffice?”

  “That is quite generous,” Linder replied. The sum would be far greater than any he had earned before, even after Jennings demanded his share.

  “Not at all, it is only fair for a man of your abilities. I shall write to my housekeeper immediately and tell her to expect you by month’s end. Unfortunately, my wife and I have a standing family obligation and will not return to Pemberley until then.”

  “That is perfectly agreeable. I must tie up a few last obligations in London, and it will allow for me to set up my studio before you arrive.”

  “Then it is settled. We shall not intrude anymore upon your time today,” Darcy replied and shook his hand again.

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance; I look forward to our sessions, Mr. Linder.

  “And I yours.”

  As swiftly as it had begun, the encounter was over, and Thomas Linder once again stood alone, surrounded by his canvases. Derbyshire was a long way, but was it far enough to escape the greed of Matthew Jennings. The curator had addressed the Darcys with familiarity. What sort of man stole from those he called friends? Not that it mattered, when things went awry, as schemes often did, Matthew Jennings always managed to come out smelling like a rose. Those who were forced to work for him took the blame. In the past, Thomas had simply created the false works, but lately, he had been sent to someone’s home. Most recently, a place called Rosings Park. The owner, a Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was a close relation of these Darcys. He would need to be very careful to avoid detection. It was a prospect that left him feeling nauseous. However, there was no time to cater to personal qualms, for Matthew Jennings had already returned from seeing the Darcys to their carriage. Standi
ng behind him, Thomas did not immediately sense his presence until the curator’s shadow obscured the light.

  “Just as I said, this one will be easy… .and very profitable, as long as you do your part.”

  Thomas Linder only nodded, he would not dare voice his objections, he did not possess the strength of character to defy a man who could easily order his demise. It was not until Jennings was well out of hearing that a vow of disagreement was uttered.

  “This will be my last…I shall not be your slave anymore.”

  ~Twelve~

  Two days later…

  Elizabeth and Darcy, after concluding all necessary business and making additional arrangements to return to London in a few months for the possible sale of the townhouse, now attempted to find a state of comfort for the long carriage ride to Rosings. The new Mrs. Darcy was fretful. It would be the first encounter with Lady Catherine de Bourgh since her marriage. Of that beautiful ceremony, Darcy’s aunt had refused to attend as a show of her immense disapproval. Now, with the possibility of her own daughter’s marriage looming in the near future, it appeared that the old lady had relented in her anger. The traditional Easter visit was to take place as expected, with a particular invitation to include Elizabeth.

  “I told you everything would sort itself out after a bit of time. Aunt Catherine did not really expect me to honor an expectation of marriage to Anne. I suppose it was more of a last resort ideology should both of us remain unmarried.”

  “Last resort? To marry one’s cousin? That suggests a union between Mr. Collins and myself as an option…. what rubbish! Your Aunt hates me.”

  Darcy smothered a laugh at the prospect, especially since it rang with its share of truth. But it felt good to laugh. So much unpleasantness had cluttered his thoughts lately, that a bit of humor was a benison. Taking Elizabeth’s hand, he squeezed it gently.

  “She doesn’t hate you… if anything, she sees your spirit and is jealous. A woman her age must feel isolated and lonely. Why else would she offer to have Georgiana stay so long? I was surprised that my sister was willing to go. Usually, when I must be gone from Pemberley, she chooses one of father’s relatives to visit. At any rate, I do look forward to the man that holds Anne’s interest so well.”

  “He must be a great find indeed to be willing to take on a mother-in-law such as Lady Catherine.”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow in askance, a gesture that was not lost upon Elizabeth. Her own mother was a trial to bear, but not in the same way as Catherine de Bourgh. Mrs. Bennet was loud and often unmindful of her opinions, but she lacked malice, a vice Lady Catherine possessed in abundance.

  “Aunt Catherine now…please try to call her that. It will please her, even if she grumbles at first.”

  “What about Auntie Kate? That should set her on edge,” Elizabeth teased.

  “It might, but unless you wish a pet name of your own, I would not recommend it. How would Bessie sound?”

  “I see your point. Bessie sounds like the family cow. I will try to be civil, but I cannot promise success.”

  “You will manage, you always do. Besides, it is only for a fortnight, and then we will be back at Pemberley.”

  “Pemberley… a bit of heaven on Earth, where no unpleasantness can ever reach.”

  Darcy only smiled and placed his arm around his wife’s shoulders as she curled up on the seat beside him. Soon, her head drooped onto his shoulder and Elizabeth was fast asleep. He loved the feel of her against him, and he would give anything to preserve her belief in him. But Pemberley, although magnificent, was not perfect, and the prospect of returning home did little to settle a nagging disturbance in his mind. It was as if his world was too perfect, and something or someone was waiting to destroy it. Ever since the discovery of a murder having taken place in his London house, Darcy could not rest easy. Perhaps when it sold the feeling would dissipate? Solid rational thinking assured him this was so, but then why did he continue to feel on edge? Had marriage made him paranoid when he was truly happier than ever before? It was a new feeling that was not to his liking. Wrapping Elizabeth tighter in his embrace, Darcy allowed exhaustion to take him and finally slept. Unfortunately, the rocking carriage, normally a lullaby of sensation, only served to fill his dreams with bizarre images that could not be explained.

  Part Two

  ~Thirteen~

  Naples, Italy 1606…

  Isabel Darcy sat in the small secluded alcove and gazed out the window at the scenery. It was indeed beautiful, of that she could not deny, but it was still a prison. Oh, she had freedom, there were no locks upon the doors or armed servants guarding her movements, but where could one escape the demands of one’s family in a foreign city? Ordinarily, Isabel would have relished the idea of a holiday in Italy. As guests of her father’s cousin, the Villa D’Angleo di Amante was the epitome of Italian luxury. Indoor baths covered in mosaics as well as exotic foods, gave the impression of living during the height of the great Roman Empire. Any sane person would be overjoyed at the prospect of experiencing such a thing, but this trip was no time of peaceful indulgence. It was simply one last attempt to persuade her to willingly accept what had been deemed her duty.

  “But you must marry eventually, and he is of a good family. You will want for nothing,” Maeve Darcy had insisted rationally.

  Isabel’s step-mother was a practical woman, and she had harbored no resentment when her father had remarried. After all, he was not an elderly man, and her mother had been gone for nearly a decade, leaving him without an heir. But Maeve was not a girl of tender years. She had been married twice before, and had no delusions of love. Marrying Hubert Darcy had been a match of old friends, not a complete stranger, all she needed to do was supply a much-needed son. Of this responsibility, Maeve had done her job, and now two young Darcy boys filled that void. Unfortunately, the security of the Darcy family was in peril from another sector, and Isabel’s marriage would save them all. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Isabel had a habit of listening when she was not invited. It was the only way that she had ever discovered anything that mattered and not something for which she would apologize.

  “But why a minister? And who is this Edward Cuthbert? If he is as good a catch as you claim, why is he willing to marry me, sight unseen? Is there something wrong with him?”

  Her father had only sighed, but produced a small miniature of the man in question. As his only daughter, he hated to place her in this position, but his sons, at ages nine and seven, were far to young to provide the security of place that the family needed.

  “See, there is nothing amiss with him. I believe many a young lady in your position would be pleased with him. Besides, we have had this discussion before. Our situation is precarious unless secured with the proper connections. Jealousy has a tendency to send even honest men to tell tales. Marriage to a minister in the Church of England will destroy any suggestions of a papal connection.”

  “So then why are we in Italy? The very center of papal power. Does this holiday only confirm any rumors?”

  Isabel had not waited for an answer, but had fled the chamber for her own. In a fit of temper, she had allowed frustrated tears to flow until a restless sleep permitted temporary escape. When she had awoken, the miniature of the Reverend Cuthbert lay on the bedside table. Taking it up for further inspection, Isabel decided that he was not entirely objectionable in his features. However, handsome faces only went so far, there was something in his eyes, and the set of his mouth that was off putting. So severe the countenance, it did not compliment the clerical collar he wore. It was as if the costume of his calling was a façade, harboring a monster beneath. Dropping the image, Isabel pushed aside the window hangings and peered down into the gardens. There, as had been daily since their arrival, was the sole other guest in the house.

  “His name is Michelangelo Caravaggio. A painter by profession, but a bit of a troublemaker. Fits of uncontrollable temper. I have offered him sanctuary until his papal pardon is granted. He is under orde
rs not to bother anyone, but you may see him in the gardens,” her uncle explained.

  “Temper? I have heard that is a common trait amongst those in the arts,” Hubert Darcy added with a glance of worry towards his family.

  “It seems so, but I owed a favor to his parents, and so far, he has kept to himself out in one of the servants’ cottages. Do not concern yourself cousin.”