Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elizabeth had been sitting there upon a foldable stool for what must have been half an hour.
The sun warm against her back, graphite pencil in hand, she stared at the blank paper on the table in front of her.
A small trawler boat sailed by, and it might have made a suitable subject for her.
Still, she had yet to make a mark on her paper or dab her brush into one of the little cakes of watercolour.
The problem was that the fingers holding her pencil were connected to the very hand upon which Mr Darcy’s lips has lingered the previous night.
A few gentlemen had bussed Elizabeth’s gloved knuckles during her five years of being out, but none of those had produced such a feeling of feverish pleasure.
Whenever she recalled Mr Darcy’s exquisite touch, the tips of her fingers tingled anew, and she wondered whether that was what was meant by ‘electrifying’.
Was the thrill she felt because her hand had been bare when he kissed it, or simply because it was him doing the kissing?
His lips upon her skin. His intense gaze meeting hers.
“Miss Bennet.”
Not having heard Mr Darcy’s footfalls in the grass, Elizabeth jumped and her breath caught.
To her embarrassment, which only made the problem worse, he was making her blush again, and his voice sent her pulse racing.
Could he perceive the effect he had on her?
When she turned to face him, she had her answer.
Yes, he was looking at her with unfeigned satisfaction and with such a grin that she feared he might quiz her unmercifully.
“I beg your pardon for startling you. However, it might have been more inopportune had you actually been applying pencil or paint to paper at that moment.” He made a point of looking at the other three tables. “I see your friends have been busy.”
Elizabeth stood and peeked at what the others had accomplished. To her chagrin, Miss Darcy had captured the exact colours of the calm Channel, the pure cerulean sky, and the trawler boat’s crimson sails blazing in the sun.
Positioned precariously close to the fenced edge of the cliff, Miss Althea was sketching, with great care and thoroughness, a family of seaweed gatherers at work on the beach below.
Miss Hughes’s paper was angled in such a way that Elizabeth could not see it. But the tip of her friend’s tongue poking out between her teeth indicated she, at least, was making an assiduous effort at rendering something.
“Why are you neither sketching nor painting, Miss Bennet? Are you not inspired?” Mr Darcy seemed genuinely perplexed at Elizabeth’s inability to apply herself.
The affectionate touch you bestowed upon me last night is, indeed, inspiring, particularly in conjunction with the happily distracting news I received from Longbourn in this morning’s post. “My indiscriminate scribbling with a pencil or dabbing paint onto this wove paper would be a terrible waste of such items, sir, as well as disrespectful to the craft.”
“It need not be a masterpiece.” Mr Darcy picked up the pencil Elizabeth had not realised she had dropped and placed it in her hand as she sat at her table again. “Simply sketch or paint something.”
“I fear that simply is the only way I can draw or paint.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose the water could be managed. And a cloudless sky. Perhaps I might even add some ‘m’-shaped birds flying about.”
“A charming scene, I suppose. But you need not depict only that which is physically before you. Allow whatever you might be feeling at the moment to dictate what will be expressed on your paper, be it a mood, a sensation, or what have you. Is there anything in particular that you are drawn to?”
Yes. You. But how does one portray attraction in a painting? Elizabeth turned and passed a sable brush to him. “Show me how it is done, then, Mr Darcy. What will you paint? What are you drawn to?” On the receiving end of another of his intense looks, she wondered what he was thinking.
“What am I drawn to? I am drawn to beauty, a combination of form and colour that pleases one’s sight.
” He spoke in a subdued, velvety undertone.
“Tinges of pink on petal-soft cheeks. A pretty smile. A dancer’s graceful way of moving.
A pair of fine, laughing eyes. But beauty is not strictly visual, Miss Bennet.
It can be found in things that please one’s other senses.
The ambrosial juice of sweet, forbidden fruit.
A low, mellifluous female voice. The luxurious softness of a cat’s fur or the silkiness of a woman’s hair.
Her distinctive, alluring scent. Yet, I am particularly drawn to inner beauty, a combination of qualities that pleases the intellect. ”
His every word had painted pictures in her mind.
What forbidden fruit? Whose silky hair? She could not shake free of the jealousy the images provoked.
Pretending otherwise, Elizabeth grinned and gestured to the cakes of pigment.
“Beauty is in the eye of the brush holder, sir.” He seemed affronted, as though painting with watercolours was not a manly enough pursuit for him.
“May I remind you, Mr Darcy, that J.M.W. Turner uses watercolours. Of which artist, may I ask, are you an admirer?”
“Joseph Wright of Derbyshire,” he replied without hesitation.
“No relation to those Wrights.” Mr Darcy twitched his head towards the house.
“One of my favourite paintings of his is titled Dovedale by Moonlight. His depictions of darkness may be associated with ignorance, while light could be symbolic of logic and reason. Because that particular painting represents a moonlit night in the valley, there is not much colour used. It may not be your preference, but, as I said, it is a favourite of mine.”
“And this preferred artist of yours is, coincidentally, from Derbyshire, is he? In that case, can you possibly be free from undue partiality or prejudice?”
“Must I remind you, Miss Bennet, that I never allow myself to be blinded by prejudice?”
He smiled at her after he said it, but Elizabeth could not help but feel chastised. “I would rather you not remind me of the hurtful things I said to you at Netherfield Park.” Or the dismaying engagement I briefly believed you had entered into in secret.
“As you wish.” He placed the brush upon her table. “Since you are not painting, shall we walk and talk? Of colour, perhaps?”
“Yes, by all means. My eloquence lies not in my fingers. Neither while making an attempt at artistry upon paper nor while trying to be fluently harmonious at the pianoforte.”
He shook his head. “Your humility must disarm reproof, madam.”
Good grief. Does he remember everything I said at Netherfield, even to Mr Bingley? In any event, Elizabeth could not tease him, for the warmth in his voice had completely disarmed her.
“Ladies,” she said to the others, “Mr Darcy and I plan to promenade along the cliff but shall remain within sight. Serious artist that I am, we are to have a scholarly discussion of colour.”
As they walked away, she accepted the gentleman’s proffered arm. A kittiwake, flying parallel with the headland, gave its shrill namesake cry just as Mr Darcy asked whether he could speak openly.
“Of course, sir.” Having eagerly anticipated a light-hearted, lively debate about colour, Elizabeth then had to suppose that he intended to impart something difficult. Appreciating that he first sought her permission, she braced herself to hear an uncomfortable truth.
“First, I must apologise in advance. What I wish to say will be personal and something that I have never before shared with either family or friends. Please be assured that I do not seek or expect your commiseration. This will simply be a preamble to what I have to say regarding colour.”
“I understand, sir.” In truth, she did not.
“There have been events and circumstances in my past that have cast a shadow over my life. The loss of my mother when I was eleven years of age, the death of my father when I was twenty-two, Mr Wickham’s perfidy at Ramsgate, Georgiana’s resulting distress, and my aunt’s relentless insistence that I marry my sickly cousin Anne.
Gradually, over the years, all the colour, the aspects that add interest and animation, seemed to leach out of my life.
Fortune and station meant little to me other than family pride, comfort, and overwhelming duty. I was content but never truly happy.”
To Elizabeth, Mr Darcy had seemed to possess all the blessings of a privileged existence. The fact that he had been despondent for such a duration tugged at her heartstrings. She clung tighter to his arm.
“Then I met a young lady as arch and brilliant as a rainbow, so full of promise and hope. But not, I thought, for me.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Surely you do not speak of Miss Wright, do you?” She could not think of that woman as playful, and the only thing radiant about her was her auburn hair. Remembering the way ‘Miss Wright the Bur’ had clung to the gentleman’s arm, she loosened her own grip on it.
“Miss Wright? Egad, no. Certainly not. The young lady of whom I speak brought colour back into my life.” Mr Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and must have noticed her furrowed brow. “Come now, Miss Bennet. You cannot doubt to whom I allude.”
Dear God, please let him be speaking of me and not some other woman.
If he says Caroline Bingley, I shall scream!
Elizabeth longed to hear that she, herself, was the young lady who was full of promise and hope.
Still, she released his arm and looked away.
“I really should go back, for I have been remiss. Having accepted your dear sister’s invitation to paint, I must return and do so.
” She did not want to seem cruel, but she was unwilling to listen if he intended to speak of his love for another.
Turning back, she waved to her friends and strode towards them. When did I become such a coward?
He followed. “Wait. Please.”