Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, May 1815
Not everyone could be there, of course.
Mary and Tom Lackenby, constrained by Mary’s impending confinement and General Lackenby’s increasing debility, had remained at home in Hucklow.
They would be missed, but Mary’s health and comfort were of greater importance than a taxing journey to London for a fleeting moment at the Royal Academy Exhibition.
Given that Darcy had fretted his way through Elizabeth’s first confinement and was still unconvinced a journey, though early in her second, could be considered a sensible notion, he had every sympathy for Tom’s protectiveness.
Though Georgiana and Lydia were enjoying the Season under the aegis of the Ashbournes, Kitty, to everyone’s initial astonishment, had elected to stay with Mary in Derbyshire and eschew Town for the year.
When Hugh announced he would remain at Pemberley—“… because, dear Lizzy, no matter how much I love you, I hate Town and cannot in the least see why I must rush down there when I may see the thing in comfort when you bring it home to Pemberley. I can never breathe in London… Besides, the planting is late this year after all the rain, and I would as lief be here to make sure nothing goes awry. You understand that, Fitzwilliam. Reid is going with you, and we cannot both be away, you know.”—then Kitty’s reluctance was explained.
Elizabeth had laughed, and protested no more.
Fitzwilliam had had no notion Hugh’s fancy had turned in Kitty’s direction, and Elizabeth merely laughed again when he complained he relied on her to tell him such things.
What his stepmother thought about it was a mystery, but she, at least, joined the Pemberley carriages for their journey south with no more than a wry smile.
The Bingleys were already in London for the Season, ensconced in their house in Culross Street, and joined the Darcys and Reids in the visit to Somerset House. They travelled in a small convoy of coaches: Bingleys, Darcys and Reids. The Gardiners were to meet them there.
“I suppose,” said Elizabeth as they alighted the coaches in the outer courtyard, “I should count myself fortunate that despite the Little Tyrant’s escape from Elba, the Academy consented to hold the Exhibition at all.”
Darcy merely grunted.
“My dear man, try to be pleased. It is a great honour.”
“I am not sanguine about this, Elizabeth. I grant you the honour, but I cannot be entirely at ease with it.”
“I know.” Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm, and squeezed lightly. “You have great delicacy of mind, Fitzwilliam, and with that mix of family pride and a sense of what is proper, I quite understand your reluctance to allow the painting to be exposed to the public eye.”
“Minx.” But he allowed his mouth to twitch, and she preened. She always delighted in teasing him into complaisance, and it was a husband’s duty to indulge his wife.
“A great many people are here,” Jane observed as she joined them, Bingley in her wake. She linked her arm through her mother’s. “We had best stay close, Mamma.”
“Well, I would ordinarily enjoy a crush, but I have never been to an occasion such as this.” Mrs Reid glanced at her husband.
“You must tell me which paintings I am to admire, John, and which I must shake my head over and say ‘tut-tut’. I do not want to appear a country bumpkin before all these people.”
“I know books, Janey-lass. I dinna ken paintings. We must all rely on Lizzy to be told our opinions.”
Darcy was not entirely sure John Reid was jesting. Elizabeth, though, laughed, waved merrily to the Gardiners who were just then arriving, and after greetings and the usual civilities were done, allowed Darcy to escort her inside.
The Great Hall was a monumental space, and the newly-knighted Sir Thomas Lawrence had surpassed himself.
His full-length depictions of Prince Regent, the Duke of Wellington, and three or four other great men prominent in the war against Napoleon ringed the walls.
Painted with uncharacteristic speed, they were astonishing portraits.
“If a trifle premature,” Darcy noted, as he eyed the portrait of the Regent resplendent in military uniform.
If his highness had ever worn such an outfit in any circumstance outside a court levée or a ball, Darcy would eat his best hat.
Without butter. “They celebrate a victory that, as it turns out, we have not yet quite won.”
He had reason to be bitter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had been recalled to his regiment two months earlier when Napoleon had returned to France and took up again the war they all—except the Corsican, it seemed—considered had ended.
Attached to Wellington’s staff, the colonel faced yet more battles, when the entire family had hoped he was free of them forever.
Or, at least until the next war came along. It was vexing not to have quite finished the current one first.
“They are still splendid portraits. We are lucky Mr Lawrence completed our commission in time. I thought it would be languishing in his studio for a few years yet!” Elizabeth turned to their small party.
“We did ask about a family portrait, but by the time he could undertake the work, little Thomas John would likely be fully grown and at Cambridge. I want to capture his likeness now, and I do not want to wait quite that long. We hope to decide on another painter today, so if you see a particularly beguiling portrait, do make a note of the artist.”
“Oh!” Mrs Reid’s gasp had several heads turning. “There it is, Lizzy! How wonderful that it is here, alongside all those great men.”
Not full length, but quite life sized. Elizabeth sat at her favourite bench in the sunken garden, with Pemberley painted behind her in a more golden light than the creamy limestone merited, but serving to make a pleasant background and give Elizabeth all the important colour.
She wore a scarlet cloak—not the one she had worn the day George Wickham’s plots had been uncovered, since it had ended in the rag bag not long after, an unsentimental fate Darcy regretted.
But she was wrapped in one of red velvet made especially for the sitting.
Lawrence had an eye for painting velvet, it seemed.
Its richness enhanced the smooth whiteness of her neck rising from the folds of the hood, the delicate colour of her face, the darkness of her curls, and the fingers of her left hand clutching the cloak’s edge.
Her right hand and arm could not be seen, as they could not that day, years ago.
Her eyes were the most arresting feature of the portrait.
Darcy had doubted even Lawrence could catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the remarkably fine eyelashes had been painted with great artistry.
She smiled at him from the ornate gold frame, as she had smiled on him that day.
He had carried the picture in his heart ever since.
But the mind could age, even if the heart never faltered, and he wanted the image of her preserved for Darcys to admire for generations to come.
The cost of the portrait had been high enough to make Darcy’s eyes water, but Lawrence was worth every guinea to have captured her so perfectly.
“Oh, Lizzy,” said his stepmother. “It is quite splendid. A very good likeness.”
Darcy ignored the murmurs of agreement. Instead, he smiled back at the portrait and considered which of the finest miniaturists he should commission to paint a copy he could carry in his pocket for ever.
“What is your opinion, Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth inched closer, the hand on his arm tightening its grip.
“I think the title is incorrect.”
Everyone peered at the little gilt label attached to the frame, with its flourish of ornate lettering. Mrs Darcy of Pemberley. Not a few of their party eyed him in bemusement.
Elizabeth, though, only smiled. “What would you prefer?”
“I commissioned this so our children and grandchildren would always know what home looks like. That is what he should have named it.”
Home.
~end~