Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Apollo himself could only be satisfied with the glorious tribute erected on the brow of Pemberley’s tallest hill.
Elizabeth followed Mr Darcy past the towering sandstone pillars and into the echoing space beyond.
Three walls enclosed a central statue of the sun god, his finger pointing towards the cloudless blue sky visible between the columns.
Stepping inside, she gazed up at the ceiling, marvelling at the mythological frieze that ran along the edge.
At Mr Darcy’s command, her easel, drawing book, pencils, and a chair had been brought up by a servant prior to their arrival, and all her equipment was balanced neatly in one corner, ready for her use.
“What will you attempt first?” Mr Darcy had begun to circle the statue, tracing his fingers along the smooth stone.
Elizabeth did not answer immediately. She had forgotten the temple’s beauty, and it was strange revisiting it with adult eyes.
For a moment, she was transported to another time, and she saw herself as a lonely girl exploring Pemberley’s grounds in search of adventure.
All that had passed between then and now filled her in an instant, and she could not find the words to express the emotions swirling in her chest. A dash of pink caught her attention.
Tendrils of honeysuckle wound around the stone urns that lined the steps, and Elizabeth went to inspect them.
“This is a lovely arrangement,” she murmured absently, pushing away the past and turning to retrieve her materials.
To her astonishment, Mr Darcy had already crossed the flagstones to pick up her easel and was now walking towards her with it in his hands.
“Where would you like it placed?” He bent on one knee, his immaculate trousers dirtied by dust as he fumbled with the stand’s catch.
“It will do very well there,” she replied, stunned at the sight of him, dishevelled and earnest in his endeavour; she had never seen Mr Darcy as anything other than severe and buttoned up.
He glanced at her and caught her staring, to the mortification of them both.
Awkwardly, he stood, brushing the dust from his clothes, and went to fetch her chair and materials.
Thanking him for his trouble, Elizabeth settled herself into her task.
As she did, Mr Darcy walked around the temple before coming to a stop several feet ahead of her.
A low wall separated the temple from the valley below, and Mr Darcy splayed his hands upon it, his weight resting forwards, his eyes shut in the sunlight, a breeze teasing his dark curls.
He seemed lost to the moment. Inspired to capture this fleeting glimpse of a softer side to Pemberley’s taciturn master, Elizabeth abandoned her floral tableau and began to sketch him in earnest.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and looked back at her with realisation. “Am I your subject?”
Embarrassed, Elizabeth’s hand stilled. “Forgive me, I should never— I should have asked—”
A red flush appeared under the stubble on his chin, but then his eyes twinkled. “You must think very highly of your talents, Miss Bennet, if you believe yourself capable of doing me justice.”
A startled laugh escaped her lips. He is teasing me. I had not thought him capable of levity. “Be careful, Mr Darcy, or I shall insist you strike a mythical pose—one that befits your godlike levels of humility.”
The corner of his lips twisted into a grin so small one could miss it.
“Do you mean like this?” Curving his upper body forwards, he fisted his hand against his forehead, the other raised behind him, in the exact manner of an ancient statue, looking so ridiculous that Elizabeth dropped her pencil and burst out laughing.
He relaxed from his posture, boyish delight upon his face, before slipping back behind his more serious mask.
Eventually, she regained her composure, still slightly in shock at the sight of a man she had always thought of as stern and forbidding behaving with such lightness.
“You can adopt any position you like, only be warned that I shall show my scribblings to your sister, and you may therefore wish to reconsider your posture.”
“Your advice is duly noted. I shall resume my sedate contemplation.” He returned his hands to the wall, this time his eyes open, looking out at all the land over which he was master.
Swiftly, Elizabeth took up her pencil again and lost herself in her creation.
Time passed in peaceful increments, the sun burning brighter as the morning went on.
She had been perhaps half an hour at the easel when she realised how hot it had become.
Several beads of sweat lined Mr Darcy’s forehead, and his hair was damp with moisture.
Worried, Elizabeth stopped mid-stroke. “Is that spot too warm for you? Would you prefer to move into the shade?”
His dark eyes darted towards her, a dimple forming in his cheek. “Do not concern yourself with me. You may call this composition, A Study in Perspiration.”
Giggling, she examined her picture. “I shall not be much longer. It is only your back and legs that are left for my attention. I have sufficiently drawn out the rest of your body.”
The tips of his ears turned crimson. “Then I shall stay here,” he replied stiffly. “Only—I hope it would not be too much to ask whether I might loosen my cravat.”
Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to blush. “If it would make you more comfortable.”
He reached up and ran two fingers between the fabric and his skin, revealing the strong column of his neck underneath.
Elizabeth knew that she should be attending to her art, but she sat spellbound for an instant.
He was undoubtedly an extremely handsome man.
Guilt stabbed her heart; poor Colonel Fitzwilliam had only left that morning, and here she was, admiring his cousin.
She imagined the colonel, desolate at his brother’s bedside, and felt wretched at the idea of him suffering alone.
“Will you journey to Haddon Court soon?”
Mr Darcy shifted his weight. “If my presence is requested. This is a delicate time, and my uncle and cousin, their relationship—” He hesitated, appearing uncertain.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam once said that his father loved one son, and it was not him,” Elizabeth supplied.
Mr Darcy looked shocked. “When did he say that?”
Elizabeth bit her lip, wishing she had not spoken. “When I stayed here before, we discussed each other’s relations.”
“He must have trusted you greatly to reveal such a personal matter.”
Elizabeth gave a rueful smile. “I believe he said it to comfort me.” Mr Darcy raised a quizzical brow, and she added quickly, “I-I was upset over a letter I had received, and his observation was meant to reassure me that I was not alone in having a distant relationship with my parents.”
“I understand.” Mr Darcy regarded her intently. “I had no idea that you were so close to my cousin.”
“He was always very kind to me.” Elizabeth dropped her gaze and returned her attention to her sketch. “I am almost finished.”
Resolving to conclude her drawing as quickly as possible, she finished with bold, fluid lines that somehow seemed to capture Mr Darcy’s commanding spirit.
At last the work was complete. A sudden shyness overcame her. “Would you like to see the fruit of my labour?” Mr Darcy crossed the space between them and came to look over her shoulder.
A low whistle of admiration passed his lips. “You have a remarkable gift, Miss Bennet.”
She regarded the sketch again, this time through Mr Darcy’s eyes.
Rapid strokes had captured the powerful, masculine lines of his body.
The true difficulty had been the balance between his initial moment of repose and the more assured stance he adopted later, but with a few sweeping movements, she had achieved it: here was Mr Darcy, striking and vigorous, surveying his home, at peace with the world.
“Drawing brings me joy—it is gratifying to know that others take pleasure from my work.”
“Have you ever considered undertaking a commission?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Are you requesting one of me?”
Reaching out, he ran his fingers over the paper. “I would happily purchase this from you.”
“You may keep it, if you wish.”
His eyebrows raised, and Elizabeth wondered whether she had been too forward.
Before she retracted her offer, he moved his hand and stepped away.
“That is very kind of you. I wondered whether I could persuade you to draw Georgiana for me. Her reticence makes sitting for a portrait difficult. I think you, best of all, would be able to capture her likeness.”
Heat rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I would be honoured.”
Upon this mention of Georgiana’s name, both Elizabeth and Mr Darcy felt it wise to return to her.
Elizabeth gathered up her materials, and Mr Darcy carried them for her, leaving the easel and chair for a servant.
It was only as they reached the bottom of the hill that she realised how much she had enjoyed Mr Darcy’s company.