Chapter 7
In the forecourt stood a carriage Darcy did not recognise. He left his horse with a lad at the stables, and spoke to the footman waiting at the main door.
‘Visitors, Hartston?’
‘Party from London, sir. Mrs Reynolds is showing them around. We believed …’
‘Of course.’ Darcy nodded reassuringly. ‘Let the visitors complete their tour. Meanwhile, inform the steward of my early arrival.’
While Hartston left on this errand Darcy ascended to the landing, and before calling his valet detoured to the gallery, where three strangers were viewing family portraits and the rest of his art collection.
He recalled that two additions had been sent up from his Mayfair house, one a landscape, one a portrait.
It would be safer, he thought, to have the portrait removed into storage before Caroline Bingley had an opportunity to view it.
Nobody else would see any resemblance to …
a certain young lady who judged him the last man in the world she wished to marry.
But jealousy was a powerful motivator, and Caroline probably would notice—obliging him to endure taunts about fine eyes.
The visitors were at the end: a respectable-looking man and his wife, and another lady studying a picture on the far wall. Darcy advanced a few steps, and Mrs Reynolds waved and came to meet him.
‘Welcome back, sir. I’m afraid …’
‘Not a problem. Proceed with your tour.’
‘A very pleasant party, sir, and it seems one of the ladies is acquainted with you. Would you like to say a few words before they leave?’
‘I will change first.’ Darcy was about to withdraw when the younger woman turned in his direction and he flinched, not believing his eyes.
She stared at him from the other end of the gallery, and he stared back.
‘Is everything all right?’ Mrs Reynolds said softly.
‘Yes …’ Darcy came to his senses, and realised he had no alternative but to act with normal civility. As he walked along the gallery the young lady moved away from the wall, allowing him to discern for the first time the painting she had been staring at.
A shiver passed through him.
Young lady with letter.
What would she think of him? What explanation could he offer, without telling an outright lie?
‘Miss Bennet.’ He struggled to speak calmly and gently. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you to Pemberley. I only wish …’
She interrupted, her face flushed. ‘Mr Darcy, allow me to apologise immediately for intruding on your privacy. We would never have done so, had we not been assured …’
‘The fault is mine. I returned earlier than expected.’ He hesitated, still thinking of the portrait, and tried to push it to the back of his mind. ‘Your, ah, parents are well? And your sisters?’ He remembered Jane, perhaps still pining for Bingley. But Elizabeth replied politely.
‘They are in excellent health, thank you.’
‘I’m exceedingly glad to hear it.’
The awkward conversation continued, attended by her companions with obvious interest. Eventually he ran out of safe topics, and said, ‘You must excuse my appearance: I have been riding since dawn. Would you do me the honour of introducing me to your friends?’
She looked surprised, and with a sly smile presented the uncle and aunt whose station in life he had described in his letter as objectionable. But the brother was in no way like the sister: Edward Gardiner exuded sense and taste, as did his wife, and the meeting was in no way embarrassing.
Ten minutes later, washed, towelled and reclothed, Darcy waited in the forecourt for Mrs Reynolds to complete the tour of the house.
Having got over the shock of encountering Elizabeth, he had considered options and decided on a strategy.
He would not comment on the portrait. Nor would he probe her reaction to his letter.
He would try instead to show that her reproofs at Hunsford had been addressed, and that he could be amiable and respectful, even under provocation.
The party emerged, and Gardiner approached him.
‘We will be on our way now, sir, and not impose on your forbearance any further.’
‘On the contrary.’ Darcy spread his arms. ‘Unless you have business elsewhere, I would be delighted to show you the park.’
‘Upon my word, that is most obliging.’ Gardiner consulted with his wife, and Darcy was relieved that Elizabeth looked happy to remain.
To put Elizabeth at her ease, Darcy walked ahead with Gardiner—and discovered a common interest in fishing.
They detoured to the riverside, where Darcy pointed out a good spot for catching trout, and offered to provide fishing tackle if needed.
When the ladies caught up, Gardiner re-joined his wife, leaving Darcy to accompany Elizabeth.
For a while they walked in silence, and feeling he ought to say something, however banal, he asked, ‘You are enjoying the park?’
‘It’s beautiful.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Darcy, may I apologise again for our untimely call. Under the circumstances you have been most gracious.’
‘Come, Miss Bennet, whatever our past misunderstandings, it would be uncivil not to show hospitality to a person I have known as well as yourself.’
‘You have done more. You conversed with my uncle in a friendly and natural manner, as if you were equals.’
‘Your relatives are fine people, and I could do no less.’
‘I’m gratified you think so.’ She paused with a nervous smile. ‘It is a rare delight to share a polite conversation with you, so it is with trepidation that I raise a topic that might spoil matters altogether. I refer to the painting in your gallery, of a lady holding a letter.’
‘It is a recent acquisition …’
‘I know. I saw it at the Royal Academy while returning from Rosings.’
He gasped, and forgetting his earlier resolution replied, ‘You are wondering perhaps what led me to purchase it.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. But your motives are your own affair, and what concerns me is the identity of the lady who sat for the artist. I asked a curator at the gallery, and he said such details, if available, would be confided privately to the buyer.’
‘Then I’m afraid I cannot help. I was given the artist’s name, a title, and a date. The sitter is unknown.’
She paused. ‘You are wondering perhaps what lies behind my enquiry.’
‘You have respected my privacy in regard to my own motivation, so I ought to return the favour in regard to yours.’
She laughed. ‘Let us put our cards on the table. The lady in the picture looks like me. There! I have said it!’
‘There is a resemblance, certainly.’
‘A strong one.’ She threw him a nervous glance. ‘I am now going to make a further confession. I knew you had bought the painting even before I came to Pemberley. We attended the last day of the exhibition, and I spotted you as you arrived to collect it.’
Darcy gasped. ‘I didn’t see you …’
‘You will think me craven, but I fled.’
‘Still angry with me?’
‘With you—and myself.’
‘Indeed?’ He frowned: was Elizabeth admitting that she too had been at fault?
‘And yes,’ she continued, ‘I did wonder what had drawn you to the portrait. A memento, perhaps, of your lucky escape? A terrible warning, to be viewed every time you became infatuated with the unsuitable daughter of a husband-hunting mother?’ She blushed.
‘But I promised not to pry. For all I know you merely liked the brushwork.’
Darcy smiled, sensing ambivalence in Elizabeth’s mind: on the one hand, she still resented his insulting criticisms of her family; on the other, she realised that her outburst at Hunsford had been misinformed and unfair. He decided to make her wait: if she could tease, so could he.
‘Your theories are most interesting, Miss Bennet, and it would be a pity to curb your creativity by premature explanation. What puzzles me is how closely you were studying the portrait today, given that you had already viewed it in London.’
‘You will not believe the answer.’
‘Try me.’
‘All right.’ Elizabeth lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I was wondering whether the lady with the letter could possibly have been my mother.’
After such an extraordinary statement Darcy felt justified in demanding an explanation.
‘I warn you …’ She smiled. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘The walk is ten miles if we do the full circuit.’
‘Then let me begin obliquely. I am drawn to a new view of human nature, namely, that people are interested only in themselves. The proof is as follows. We are acutely aware of parents, sisters, aunts and uncles insofar as they influence our lives. But if truly interested in them we would enquire what they did, and how they lived, before we appeared on the scene. So let me try an experiment. Do you know what your father and mother did in their youth, before you were born? Or your grandparents?’
Darcy considered. ‘For my parents I recall isolated facts that cropped up in conversation. For the rest I have only vague childhood memories coupled with the portraits you have just viewed and the Fitzwilliam gallery at Matlock.’
She beamed, warming to her theme. ‘My situation is the same. And so I had no idea that when my parents were just married, an artist came to Meryton to paint Sir William and Lady Lucas, and excited the neighbourhood so much that everyone wanted a portrait, including …’ She grinned.
‘My mother! All of which may seem irrelevant. But what if I added that the artist’s name was—Pavan? ’
Darcy gasped. ‘Lorenzo Pavan?’
‘No, Mario. Lorenzo’s nephew. But examine your picture and you will find it is signed only Pavan.’
‘You think the portrait could be by Mario?’ Darcy considered. ‘I was warned that fakes abound on the London market, and a painting by Lorenzo would fetch a higher price.’ He paused. ‘But if the painting is of your mother, why is it not hanging at Longbourn?’
Elizabeth explained, treading carefully as if certain parts of the story were better concealed.
It seemed Mario Pavan had indeed visited Longbourn, while Mr Bennet was away.
Various sketches and studies had been produced, then finally a full-sized portrait in oils.
Unfortunately the result was not to Mrs Bennet’s liking.
In fact she hated it so intensely that she had paid the agreed sum so as to ensure it was destroyed, and tried to acquire the preparatory studies as well.
But too late: Pavan had already left in a huff for London—with his sketches.
‘So you think Mario Pavan used Mrs Bennet’s likeness to generate further works, which he could sell without giving the name of the sitter?’
‘That was my idea.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘But studying the portrait again today, I had second thoughts. Yes, it looks like me, especially in the eyes. But not like my mother! The hair of course is wrong. Mother had fair hair, like Jane and Lydia. Not dark.’
‘Pavan might have changed it to conceal the identity of the sitter.’
‘But the features too are wrong. The lady in your picture has thinner lips, and eyes wider apart.’
Darcy nodded. ‘Like yourself, if you permit the observation.’
‘Yes! Like me, not mother!’ Elizabeth stopped walking, and turned to face him with a grin. ‘I appeal to your greater intelligence and learning, Mr Darcy. How can such a mystery be explained?’
Darcy looked back, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘We had better wait for your uncle and aunt.’
‘You are evading my question.’
He sighed. ‘The solution is probably very simple, Miss Bennet. Coincidence. An Italian lady happens to look like you. The nephew of the artist happens to come to London and accept a commission at Meryton. Coincidences occur all the time, leading people to superstitious conclusions. A man dances to pass the time during a drought; next day, to everyone’s relief, it pours with rain.
The two events connect in their minds, giving the impression that the rain was prompted by his dancing. ’
She laughed. ‘You are saying that my thought processes resemble those of a primitive tribe?’
‘You know perfectly well what I am saying.’
With this shot, Darcy moved away to confer with the Gardiners, who were looking foot-weary.
It might be best, he suggested, to send back for a barouche and see the rest of the park in comfort.
A groundsman happened to pass, the order was given, and Darcy was gratified when Elizabeth quietly took him aside and thanked him.