Darcy & Elizabeth (55 page)

Fortune Favours the Fools

The exceedingly rich drama involving Smeads was not the only entertainment for those who remained behind whilst the Darcys were away. One rife with those emotions singular to mutual esteem played out in plain view of all who cared to notice. The players, however, were altogether astonishing.

***

Just because the Darcys were away, work did not cease upon their family portrait. Sir Morland had progressed to the point that the sitters' likenesses were imprinted upon his mind with uncommon authenticity. Hence, when the Darcys took their unscheduled leave, he was able to sit happily upon his upholstered stool and daub away, humming with satisfaction.

Once her daughter's duty to Mr. Darcy's relation took her from Pemberley, Mrs. Bennet saw it as her duty to watch over her daughter's house, her daughter's servants, her daughter's children, and, most intently, her daughter's painter. (She would have appointed herself watch and ward over her daughter's pigs and fowl as well, but there were only so many hours in a day). As she believed that one could not be doing justice to one's employment in a happy state of mind, Morland's contentment outraged Mrs. Bennet.

For his part, in the Darcys' absence, Morland expected Mrs. Bennet's renewed scrutiny. With Mrs. Darcy no longer there to mediate their squabbles, he looked forward to those testy exchanges to rage quite without restraint. To remind himself that he despised Mrs. Bennet, he took measures to make certain that she was banned altogether from the salon were he painted. Indeed, his assistant was stationed outside the door to bar her admittance. Insofar as Mrs. Bennet had not intruded upon him for several days, he had congratulated himself that he had thought to do it.

Yet, after several days of self-prescribed solitude, his passion for his art idled. He began to miss Mrs. Bennet's persistent intrusion into his workplace. Her outrageous interjections and opinions had heightened his colour. Indeed, after such episodes, the blood coursed through his veins with unbridled fervour. He began to consider in what other ways he might renew his passion in that same manner. Whatever it was, he thought it most certainly would not include that tempestuous Mrs. Bennet.

As it happened, Mrs. Bennet had not trespassed upon him simply because she had not chosen to do so—not because of his silly little sentry. If she truly wanted to enter a particular room in her daughter's house, a mere mortal would not have stopt her (although the bolts securing the door to her daughter's bedchamber had done their office with great efficiency). As it happened, her youngest daughter, Mrs. Kneebone, and her new husband had been visiting and Mrs. Bennet's attention had been much occupied by entertaining them in the largest and most elegant of Pemberley's parlours. The major was not particularly witty, but she never tired of dear Lydia's gossip.

Because of the bereavement suffered by the Darcy family, the Kneebones felt it only proper that they take their leave as well (in truth, it was Major Kneebone who insisted). Once both her daughters and their husbands had taken their leave from Pemberley, Mrs. Bennet had little with which to amuse herself. Indeed, it took but a single evening of nothing but her own company ere she thought of an offence of Morland's that had remained unaddressed. Mrs. Bennet believed that her daughter, Lizzy, was far too tolerant of that man's daily inebriation. Now that the house was in her able hands, the time had come for the painter's sins against God and his fellow man to be addressed. She was in want of confronting him immediately, but was thwarted. He was not an early riser.

“Nursing his head due to an overindulgence in spirits, no doubt,” she sniffed.

Knowing to do otherwise would be fruitless, she waited until she heard the bell toll eleven and then made her way to the room Morland had commandeered as his studio. Although his master's instructions were explicit when it came to Mrs. Bennet, Morland's minion was still unable to stop her from bursting through the door. He did manage to put up enough of an obstruction to slow her down, and the resultant fuss was great enough to give warning of her imminent intrusion. Moreland had removed the canvas from the painting, and was just then putting out his paints. When he heard the commotion, he ceased and turned towards the door expectantly.

Midday was not near as complimentary to a lady's complexion as candlelight, but the northern light (Morland demanded it for his sittings) was still favourable to a woman of Mrs. Bennet's years. Indeed, she was still a lady of some handsomeness. With flattering light and the particular care she had shown her toilette, she was at her best. Moreover, her pique had heightened the colour in her cheeks. As she wafted across the room, she stopt a half-dozen steps away from the painter (making certain she kept the light streaming in from the windows at her back). The fragrance with which she had drenched herself caught up with her, engulfing them both.

Morland caught the scent and he raised his nose as it involuntarily took a whiff. It did not escape him that her cheeks bore a rosy hue that could not be entirely attributed to her state of agitation. Sometimes, he mused, loveliness is found where one least expects it. (Had her eyes always been that striking shade of green?) The proposal Mr. Darcy had put to him on her behalf did not look quite so repugnant from this vantage. It was surprising how much more fetching a countenance was when it was accompanied by a healthy-sized commission.

“Sir Morland!” she exclaimed, “I am come to insist that you no longer indulge your taste for spirits in my presence.”

That, of course, was an ill-considered demand. She immediately realised her error, but before she could qualify it more rationally, he bowed.

“If madame would refrain from my company, would that not solve the dilemma?”

“I think not,” she blustered. “You should refrain from my company!”

“I must point out, madame,” he said civilly, “that you have come to my studio; I have not come to you.”

He gave her a gracefully indulgent bow despite himself, adding, “And if you did, I would not have the pleasure of beginning my day with the vision of your very handsome frock before me. The lace is lovely. Is it new?”

Mrs. Bennet was quite taken aback by both his civility and his compliment. As it happened, it was not new. Upon the six-month anniversary of her husband's death, she had dared to add a small bit of lace to freshen one of her black bombazine gowns. Therefore, she stuttered a bit in reply.

“Why, yes,” said she, “It is new. No, I mean—not altogether. It has been refashioned.”

Whilst Mrs. Bennet's interest in the painter was born primarily of boredom, they both had a substantial mercenary streak. (She might not have been happy to know that his attention to her was inspirited by monetary gain, but she would have understood it.) However, by the time Morland saw Mrs. Bennet literally in a new light, the enforced celibacy he had endured during his long sojourn in the country bade his masculine appetite take notice. Hence, he liberated all the charm that had lain dormant for months.

“Whatever you have done, I must say it is quite fetching.”

She peered at him suspiciously, absolutely refusing to admit that she had sought out his admiration. It took her a moment before she recollected herself and returned the courtesy with a dip of her knees. Instinctively, she caught hold of the fan that dangled from a cord about her wrist (it too was black, but the tassel was silk) and had it unfurled by the time she arose from her curtsy. From behind its flutter, she batted her eyelashes several times. A titter escaped her lips before she managed to collect herself.

He swept his arm in the direction of his work in progress, inviting her to view it. She closed her fan and made her way in that direction. Her walk was prim, but her figure was arranged to suggest that she might, despite her widowhood, be cajoled from her bereavement.

“What say you, madame?” Morland said as he stood proudly next to what he saw as a masterpiece.

It was the first time that she had been allowed to see it. Even she had admitted that the earlier portrait that he had done of Elizabeth had been exquisite (“If only it had been of Jane,” she had said, “Now there is true beauty.”) This one even Mrs. Bennet could see was extraordinarily fine. Upon this occasion she had the good sense not to wish it had been of Jane's handsome family instead. Indeed, she knew not how to admire it enough.

“Your work is most excellent, Sir Morland,” she gushed. “You give my daughter's family a great compliment. It is indeed the most handsome rendering I have ever beheld.” Then she added, “'Tis such a pity that it will not be displayed in London for the enjoyment of all. That would be such a triumph!”

Upon this matter, they exchanged commiserating looks on behalf of Mr. Darcy's implacability. That gentleman had remained unmoved upon the subject of public display of his family's portraits. On the subject of Mr. Darcy's pride, they were of like minds.

“I thank you,” Morland bowed. “I am happy to know that you approve and understand the loss to my reputation.”

Morland gazed upon Mrs. Bennet with renewed interest. He had never noticed how dazzling white was her skin—for a lady of her years. Indeed, her hair had not a hint of grey and her complexion was well tended. Few women could wear the black of mourning with her success.

“I find it impossible to believe that you have married daughters, Mrs. Bennet,” he exclaimed. “You cannot be more than a girl yourself!”

As a woman who never quarrelled with a compliment, she gave another flutter of her fan and dropped her gaze demurely to the floor. It had been far too long since she had been looked upon with an admiring eye. She had cared for Mr. Bennet, but no one thought their marriage to be one of abiding love. He had found much greater diversion in mocking her than professing his esteem. She was not truly tempted to succumb to Morland's charms—she was far too cognizant his reputation extended beyond that of his skills of an artistic nature. Still, a woman of her ego was not one to rebuff chivalrous attention when it was presented.

“Pray, has Mr. Darcy approached you, my dear Mrs. Bennet,” he queried, “upon a further commission he has proposed?”

“No, indeed, he has not.”

“If Mr. Darcy has not yet spoken to you of it, I dare not anticipate him,” he said, feigning humility.

As he expected, Mrs. Bennet commenced to wheedle him into his own bidding. In doing so, she once again began flapping her fan—behind which she simpered to an alarming degree. Although he begged her to desist, his surrender was swift.

“Mr. Darcy has requested that I take your likeness, madame, when I have compleated my present work.”

Upon hearing this, Mrs. Bennet was dumbfounded. (The rarity of such a happening was such that it was a shame only Morland was there to witness it.) She was absolutely astonished to learn that Mr. Darcy held her in such special regard. Initially, she stood mouth agape, but momentarily her jaw began to move with such rapidity, it was remarkable that she uttered not a sound. Had he known that she was so easily silenced, Morland might have brought Mr. Darcy's request to her attention long before. (His newfound admiration did not forget her loquaciousness.) He stood nodding patiently until at last she regained her voice.

She managed to croak out a response, “You honour me, sir!”

Although he was becoming increasingly happy to do so, Morland had dragged his heels a bit when Mr. Darcy had initially asked him to take another commission. Although there were few men who dared deny Mr. Darcy anything, Morland's ego sometimes took him down the lane of impetuosity. He knew it unwise to reject Mr. Darcy, but the thought of spending the time he must to do Mrs. Bennet justice whilst listening to her carp was objectionable. Of course, he did not say this to Mr. Darcy. Rather, he patiently explained that in some instances, the chosen subject did not suit his artistic sensibilities. When Mr. Darcy increased his offer by half, Morland reconsidered his position. Even with that additional incentive, Morland had remained sullen over the prospect of such a portrait; ruing his plight as one no man should have to suffer.

It had been a curiosity to him as to why Mr. Darcy was so keen upon a portrait of his mother-in-law—she had neither title nor position beyond her connection to the Darcys. Initially, Morland believed Mr. Darcy was willing to spare no expense in having his irritating mother-in-law busy for much of the day. However, when informed that the likeness was to be taken at the Bennet family home of Longbourn, the Darcys' design fell unerringly apparent. Plainly, it suited them not only to have Mrs. Bennet's afternoons occupied, but to have her spend them in fair Hertfordshire. The additional stipulation that this sitting was to be taken beneath the spreading arms of an exceptionally fine oak to the east of the house itself, Morland saw as being Mrs. Darcy's particular wish, not her husband's.

Morland was entirely sympathetic to their plight, he was just not entirely certain about being sequestered with the quarrelsome Mrs. Bennet for such a portion of time that a sitting would demand. He had toyed with the notion of declining. In the end, the call of his pocketbook overruled his reservations. He steeled his resolve by reminding himself of just how charming he could be when he put his mind to it. The new side of herself that she had displayed was a relief. He would not have to employ all of his wiles to beguile her and that made his decision all the happier. True, his history suggested that he liked his romantic conquests not so long in the tooth, but he had courted less handsome women to ensure the success of his work. If he had not quailed at the prospect of wooing that portly duchess with the wrinkled décolleté and foul-smelling breath, a mere country lady would be but child's play.

The one thing he never thought it would be was a pleasure.

Compleatly unaware of the Smeads figurative and literal fall, Mrs. Bennet began to while away her afternoons seated in a wing chair admiring Sir Morland as he put the finishing touches upon the Darcys' portrait. Evenings he escorted her about the promenade, allowing them to uncover a common interest in gossip. Theirs was not quite a romance, but enough of a friendship that it was generally accepted that Sir Morland would have little trouble obtaining Mrs. Bennet's agreement to have her likeness displayed in London. Most of the servants were astounded that any manner of attachment was formed, but all who worked above stairs were happy that Mrs. Bennet had found a diversion that did not include cavilling to them.