Chapter 18
Waking next morning, Elizabeth felt a fog had lifted.
For weeks she had dwelled obsessively on a supposed mystery over her origins.
But after Darcy’s calm reaction, and her uncle’s relaxed explanations, all had become clear.
There had never been any mystery. Only suggestive coincidences, allied to her instinctive sense that she was somehow related to the lady-with-letter in Lorenzo Pavan’s painting.
But if recent experience had taught her anything, it was that her instincts were unreliable.
She had been equally sure that Darcy was a misanthrope who had ruined Wickham’s career.
Emerging from her anxieties, she realised what would normally have been obvious: all around her, matters were evolving, mostly for the better.
Lydia and Wickham were married, and conveniently relocated to the far north.
Jane and Bingley were betrothed. Just two months ago, her family had been in despair: now instead, her relieved father was recovering his health, and her mother was overjoyed, soon to have two daughters married and worries over the entail resolved.
Strangest of all, their saviour in both cases had been the very man she had hated.
It was Darcy who had restored Lydia to respectability, Darcy who had changed his advice to Bingley, Darcy too who had listened patiently to her perplexities over the painting.
And therein lay an opportunity that she, Elizabeth, would be foolish to ignore.
This man whom she had so misjudged had not proposed from some mad impulse.
He must truly admire her, delight in her company, care for her—and his love had endured in spite of her rejection.
Both at Pemberley and in London they had talked not only civilly but with friendliness, openness, trust. Whether foolish or not, the discussions over the paintings had bound them in a common cause, pursued with respect and good humour.
Forget Fanciulla con Lettera. It was Darcy’s likeness that deserved her attention.
What interested him? What did he hope for? What experiences had shaped him?
While taking Elizabeth to Gracechurch Street Darcy had issued an invitation to dine at his Mayfair home. The party included Mr and Mrs Gardiner, and Georgiana, but not Bingley, already back at Netherfield with his license.
On the trip across London, the Gardiners spoke of their children, as if to conceal what was really on their minds—the obvious affinity of Darcy for their niece.
The grandeur of Mayfair could not fail to impress, but Darcy’s welcome was informal—as if greeting old friends.
He made a point of speaking with the Gardiners, over a glass of sherry, while Georgiana took Elizabeth on a tour round the house, ending in a smallish room which Darcy used as a study.
‘He retreats here when I’m practising,’ Georgiana said with a smile.
‘And reads.’ Elizabeth went to the shelves, recalling her conversation with Darcy at the Netherfield ball.
What think you of books? he had asked. Oh no, she had replied.
I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.
The collection here was very different from the library at Pemberley.
Instead of dusty rows full of classics, these were works published recently, some in pamphlet form.
She looked at an installment of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, dated that very year, 1812.
Nearby was Thomas Paine’s controversial The Rights of Man, alongside a pamphlet entitled An Apology for the Bible addressed to the Author of ‘The Age of Reason’.
There were weightier volumes too, including philosophical works by David Hume and Adam Smith which she had seen in her father’s study.
Seeking lighter fare, she picked up a three-volume work just published by Mrs Jane West, The Loyalists: an Historical Novel, and Letters to a Young Lady by the same author. She turned back to Georgiana. ‘Have you looked at these?’
Georgiana wrinkled her nose. ‘Terribly serious.’
Opening the latter, Elizabeth read a subtitle—In which the duties and character of women are considered, chiefly with a reference to prevailing opinions, along with a quote from the Bible: Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord shall be praised.
A good present for Mary, perhaps. The aim was apparently to lament modern ideas on the role of women.
The contrast with Thomas Paine was stark: radicalism and conservatism side by side.
Dinner was delightful: traditional dishes, perfectly cooked, in moderate quantities—again, with no attempt to impress.
Coffee and liqueurs followed in the drawing room, where Georgiana softly played a Bach French Suite, providing a pleasant accompaniment to conversation.
After a while Mr and Mrs Gardiner circled the room, leaving Elizabeth tête-à-tête with Darcy—a deliberate ploy, she guessed, but welcome all the same.
‘I hope you like our modest home,’ he said lightly.
‘How could one not? But I warn you, I have been examining your taste, especially in regard to books.’
‘And paintings?’
‘Best avoided. They give me all manner of strange ideas. But your bookshelves perplex me.’ She explained her surprise at finding Mr Paine juxtaposed with Mrs West.
‘The reason is simple,’ Darcy said. ‘I try to keep up with the latest publications. And to sample varied viewpoints.’
‘What do you make of Thomas Paine?’
‘Whether right or wrong, he is honest and clear-thinking. Which distinguishes him from most of his critics.’
‘Such as Reverend Watson, who seems most upset by Paine’s views on theology. But I did not see The Age of Reason on your shelves.’
‘It is controversial, and publishers have been prosecuted for blasphemy.’ Darcy lowered his voice. ‘Since we are in the habit of exchanging confidences, I should confess that I keep a copy in a locked drawer.’
‘What is so terrible about it?’
‘Paine disputes that the Old Testament can be infallibly true, since some actions attributed to the deity are so cruel. For instance, God orders the Israelites to exterminate their neighbours, the Canaanites—even the children.’
‘And what does Reverend Watson say in response?’
A smile. ‘That the Canaanites were so depraved that the world was better off without them.’
‘Hmm.’ Elizabeth paused, interested that Darcy treated such disputes so lightly. ‘Is it not strange to imagine that all wisdom may be found within the covers of a single book? Rather like fencing off a territory and refusing to go outside?’
‘Some people feel safer that way.’
‘That’s right!’ Elizabeth glanced at her uncle and aunt, who had taken seats near the piano to give her privacy.
‘My mother, for instance.’ She spoke quietly.
‘Who saw no benefit in travelling abroad. According to father, she felt comfortable only in the locality she knew. But perhaps we all set boundaries of some kind. The place we live in, the people we meet, the ideas we think worth considering. It is as if we situated ourselves in a frame—like the subject of a portrait.’
‘I thought it was unsafe to mention paintings.’
She laughed. ‘At the risk of embarrassing us both, do you recall our dance at Netherfield when I said I would take your likeness?’
‘By then you already had a finished portrait.’
‘A misleading one, because I had put a frame around my impressions, ignoring all that might lie outside.’
He nodded, and after a while replied, ‘It is said that the word education stems from the Latin verb educare meaning to lead out. That is certainly how I saw my years at Cambridge, where I studied history and philosophy. Both subjects reveal the sheer variety of human ideas and customs.’
‘It would be so wonderful to travel.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘I envy my father his journey across Europe.’
‘The experience has been denied me by these wretched wars,’ Darcy said. ‘But one day—I hope so.’
‘I would adore to see Venice.’ Elizabeth threw him an amused glance. ‘I could seek out the Pavans. Mario if he is still alive. Concetta.’
Georgiana had finished playing, and looked poised to join them. Quickly Darcy whispered, ‘On that topic, would you be interested in one last investigation? I want to show the paintings to an expert in Italian art, and hear his conclusions on their provenance.’
‘Could I …’
He nodded. ‘I will invite him for morning coffee.’