Chapter 17 A Piece of Work
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A PIECE OF WORK
Anne was meant to be instructed in drawing and painting by a noted master, but she, in a display of defiance that Elizabeth was coming to understand was not wholly out of character, refused to do them most of the time.
The two ladies would go to the gallery in the company of Mrs Jenkinson, and as soon as the lesson began, Anne would develop a headache, a stomach-ache, or a vague case of womanly troubles and be required to leave.
Elizabeth worried that Lady Catherine would learn of the irregularity and become angry, but the threat of Anne becoming angry was more certain and more imminent, so she did as Anne wished, consenting to have a footman from Rosings House come to escort her back home.
Against her every expectation, Elizabeth found she rather enjoyed her lessons in drawing and painting from Mr Vaughan. Their lessons were mostly conducted at the British Institution in Pall Mall which Lady Catherine deemed the only sufficiently genteel venue for any lady to attend.
Mr Vaughan was rather a milksop, and he clearly despaired of finding any talent for art in Elizabeth, which she had to admit was just. He was not, however, unkind, and he had taught her one thing: even if she never produced a creditable drawing or painting, the endeavour was yet worthy, for it enabled her to better appreciate the works of others.
Elizabeth liked the notion of that, realising her previous examinations of various works had been cursory and limited to careless evaluation and meaningless opinion.
It was a great satisfaction to her when, after just two afternoons spent with Mr Vaughan, she could apprehend differences in light and form.
With a new eye, she looked at the many portraits on the walls at the de Bourgh and Matlock town houses, noting how the shading on one produced an almost life-like quality to the skin tone or how the shift in perspective in a landscape gave an ebullient quality to the picture.
Despite her lack of creditable result, Elizabeth found it a restorative exercise. She would sit with her attention ostensibly on her work but allowing her thoughts to wander to wherever they might wish to go.
She was deep in a lesson in the first week of May when Mr Vaughan excused himself from the room to speak with a friend, leaving her alone save for two older ladies debating over which artist should be hired to do a portrait of their shared grandchild, a lad whose last name was Brinkley.
Which was not the same as Bingley but near enough to make her sister’s situation come to mind.
Mr Bingley had called on Jane, and the visit, according to Jane’s letter, had been agreeable.
Mr Bingley had been all things charming and kindly, but Jane had sensed pity beneath the pleasantries.
When he had asked if he might call again, Jane had told him she did not see any purpose to it. It seemed Jane’s fears had triumphed.
Mrs Bennet had berated Jane endlessly until Mr Gardiner stepped in, telling his sister that he thought Jane was being wise.
A young lady in reduced circumstances, he had told Mrs Bennet, was often the target for a man seeking a bit of diversion.
Not matrimony. Elizabeth sighed, recognising the truth in that.
Nevertheless, she did wish it might be different, or that Jane had perhaps given things a bit more of a chance.
When he arrived, she knew not; a slight prickling at the back of her neck was her first hint she was not only in the society of another but also was being observed.
She heard footsteps moving at a measured pace as their owner took in the various works that hung near one another on the wall.
She glanced up, seeing the two older ladies had gone and a gentleman had arrived.
It was Mr D.
Her heart leapt when she saw the man, and she blushed, rather stupidly. As his back was to her, she seized the opportunity to study him; her recent artistic forays, if nothing else, had taught her to appreciate form and composition, and his, she concluded, were superior.
Pray do not forget he is not for you. You are no one’s diversion and, in any case, he likely despises you for embarrassing him at the Whitmore ball last month.
Whether he was Mr D or Mr Darcy, it was patently obvious he was a man of means, a man accustomed to having his own way of things.
But she was not ‘things’ and she would not permit him to have his way with her or her heart.
Determination renewed, she picked up her brush, grimacing at the fresh sight of her crude rendering.
She attacked it with vigour, blending and shading to the best of her poor ability, wholly expecting that Mr D would soon quit the gallery.
Mr Vaughan looked in and mouthed something incomprehensible to Elizabeth.
She smiled and nodded in return, which satisfied him enough to remove himself to another part of the museum once again.
When he had gone, footsteps approached and she heard a deep voice from behind her. “Miss L. We meet again.”
Her heart fluttered once more when she saw him. She offered a slight smile over her shoulder before setting her brush down, intending to rise.
“No, please,” he said, quickly coming round to stand beside her easel. “I would not interrupt your work.”
“Work indeed,” she said lightly. “Am I not positively dreadful?” She took up her brush but found it impossible to continue while under his eye. Do I care so much for his good opinion?
“The worst,” he agreed, making her laugh. “Although I must own, Miss Pelham is a rather desolate prospect even under the most masterful of brushes.”
“Do you think so? She is perhaps not a noted beauty, but her aspect is quick. I quite like her.”
“She was rumoured to have fine eyes,” said Mr D. “Evidently they were of the sort that cannot be captured by an artist, even one as practised as Sir Joshua.”
“Hateful man,” she said with a smile that belied any criticism. “I find her rather intriguing, by reputation if not appearance. And in any case, are not eyes to be reduced to shape and colour, the same as anything else?”
“Some are.” He tilted his head to regard her. “But in others there is a liveliness and an expression that cannot be copied.”
Elizabeth glanced up and almost immediately their eyes locked.
In a low tone that could only be termed admiring, he said, “Some eyes are far too lovely to be reduced to mere shape and colour. It is the expression within them that captivates a person.”
Elizabeth was disconcerted by such a statement and, after a moment to gather herself, turned back to her painting.
She took up her brush and dabbed a bit of the paint onto it but made no move towards her canvas.
She decided she would turn to teasing to move past the moment.
“You are no doubt wondering if my poor result is due to a deficiency in interest or in application.”
There was a slight pause, and then he said, “When a man is lost in admiration of a woman, he finds that everything she does is wondrous.”
The frisson of pleasure that coursed through her was immediate and unwelcome, and she crushed it down with deliberate force, reminding herself that there was nothing good to come of succumbing to his pretty words.
It seemed that whatever he had wanted from her had not been defeated by her yanking her hand from near-contact with his lips at the Whitmore ball.
Neither had he been discouraged by the news that she did not seek a husband.
Perhaps it had actually encouraged him to pursue a less honourable course.
“I pray you would not say such things to me.” She despised the tremor in her voice.
“What things?” His tone shifted, grew quieter, more dangerous.
“Things about…admiration or captivation.”
He moved in front of her easel, looking down at her. “Why not?”
“You do not know me, Mr D.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “And when you say such things, it seems—it is—unsavoury.”
He paused, his countenance inscrutable. Finally he asked, “How is it unsavoury to pay a woman a compliment?”
She turned her attention back to her painting with deliberate nonchalance.
“Gentlemen flatter and flirt with abandon, with no thought as to the effects on a female heart, only to abandon her when the novelty wears thin or when fancies go elsewhere. It matters not whether she is an heiress or a”—she caught herself—“or a pauper. She is left wholly to the mercies of a man’s inconstancy. ”
“And you believe I am such a man?”
She shrugged one shoulder, not looking up at him. “I have no idea of what sort of man you are. We are not acquainted.”
“As we are not acquainted, perhaps you ought not to judge me with the wrongdoings of whatever men have disappointed you before me.”
The silence that followed pressed against her like a physical weight. She could not bear to look up at him and wished he was not looming over her in such a way. “I-I do not speak from personal disappointment in men,” she said finally, making some useless dabs and swirls on her canvas.
“Then why do you speak so and behave so in reply to mere civility?”
She forced herself to meet his eye. “Civility would be most welcome, sir. I enjoy true conversation far more than pretty words designed to play upon my vanity.”
A mask had descended over his features—cold, impenetrable stone replacing warmth.
He looked every inch a proud, disdainful aristocrat, gripping his swagger stick like his life depended upon it.
Yes, she had never been more certain that this was the man who had jilted Anne, the man who had scorned the Bennets.
She turned her eyes back onto the painting, her brush hovering uselessly above the canvas. Miss Pelham’s eyes stared back at her, lifeless and accusing. Elizabeth could no longer remember why she had wanted to paint them.
When he finally spoke again, his voice cut through the silence like a whip. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”