Chapter Five #2
“Uncle Phillip,” Elizabeth said, confident that her uncle was expecting her to explain the reason for her choice, “the land would be a long-term investment, true, but if we purchased property with a home already built, we might also stay in it when we are in London. We would then not rely upon Cousin John for housing.” She knew he did not like imposing on John or his other Russell cousins.
Though the central location was ideal, he did not approve of many of John’s guests.
John had lately given the three of them private apartments in a quiet part of the house.
His Grace had told his cousins that they could have as much or as little company as they liked.
Uncle Phillip rubbed one eyebrow with the side of a finger as he ruminated. Elizabeth waited silently for his verdict. She knew he was creating plans in his head, and she did not wish to disturb him.
“Lizzy,” he said fondly, “this is a wonderful idea. Kensington.” He chuckled. “I will take John up on his offer in Russell Square as well. He is leasing the plots, not selling freehold, but he means to sell me a very nice property there.”
“As well he should,” Aunt Olivia said haughtily. “Your cousin owes you far more than an invitation to stay in his home.”
Uncle Phillip smiled and shook his head. “He owes me nothing, dearest, but I shall take the offer anyway. We will purchase from John, then lease that property out and inquire about land in Kensington.”
“Half my money, Uncle Phillip,” Elizabeth stated. “Let us see what we can purchase with half my money.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, surprised. “It is quite a sum.”
She nodded. “I am certain. It will leave me enough. Will you invest as well?”
Uncle Phillip grinned at her aunt, and then at Elizabeth.
“I believe I will.” He kissed the top of her head and walked her back to her drawings.
“That is enough empire building for one day, my dear.” He rifled through a stack of drawings on the table.
“What are you working on now?” Elizabeth watched him examine a garden view through the window at school, a whimsical sketch of a faerie from a story her father had told her when she was a little girl, some still-life watercolors her master had required, and then, a portrait.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, reaching out to take it, but her uncle held it away to have a look.
She had not meant for him to see this one, a sketch of him and Aunt Olivia that focused primarily on their faces as he stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder.
But it was too late. His mouth gaped a bit as he studied the intricate pencil drawing.
She smiled. She knew the likeness was not perfect, but she was proud of it.
She loved them both so very much, and it showed in every line and shadow.
She was particularly satisfied with how Uncle Phillip’s hair had turned out.
Aunt Olivia was trickier—there was an expression of mischief mixed with wisdom in her eyes that was difficult to reproduce, but she thought she had done creditably even there.
It had taken her a week of late nights to achieve the result she wanted, and even so, her fingers itched to keep working.
Of the many sketches she had made of them, this was by far the best likeness.
“I meant to present that to you for your anniversary next week,” she said, embarrassed. “I hope you like it.”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered. Elizabeth was certain he was staring at the rendering of Aunt Olivia. “Livy,” he said, turning the drawing so she could view it. “Have you seen this?”
“Hmm?” Aunt Olivia asked distractedly, glancing up. She froze, her pen dangerously close to dropping a blot of ink on her nearly completed letter. Her husband reached over to set the pen in the inkwell and she took the drawing into her own hands.
“Oh,” she said, pretending that she was not affected, “she has flattered you, Phillip.”
“Wicked woman,” he teased, bending over her shoulder to view the picture again with her. “You always say that. She has captured you perfectly. Do you see the intransigence in your eyes?”
Aunt Livy slapped playfully at his arm. “Lizzy, you drew this from memory?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I have had a great deal of time to study the originals.”
Her aunt sighed happily. “You have become a wonderful artist, just as we planned when
you came to us.”
Elizabeth remembered sitting in the garden when she arrived at Weymouth House.
Her aunt had required she draw nearly every flower and tree in it.
She had been more interested in drawing the creatures who lived in the meadows and near the stream.
“You gave me so many lessons, Aunt,” Elizabeth smiled, her cheeks flushing lightly, “I had no choice in the matter.”
“Impertinent miss,” her aunt retorted, but Elizabeth heard both pride and affection in the words.
Uncle Phillip took the portrait in his hands. “I shall have this framed, my dear, and we will hang it near your sketches of Weymouth House and London.”
“I am happy you are pleased with it, Uncle,” she smiled. “Aunt.” She embraced them each in turn. “Perhaps we shall soon hang it in a Kensington house?”
Uncle Phillip laughed at that and gestured at her folio. “We shall have to choose a property with a good deal of wall space, my dear.”
Michaelmas 1807
“You rang for me, Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, her stance and voice entirely business-like.
It had been the better part of a year, and still it was difficult to accept that he was now not a Mr. Darcy, or even young Mr. Darcy.
No, he was the Mr. Darcy, even to the housekeeper who had known him since he was four.
He would never admit that he missed having Mrs. Reynolds call him Master Fitzwilliam, but he did.
Today he had, for the first time since his father’s death, glanced up at the clock to see that he had finished his work for the day before the dinner hour.
His father had not expected to fall ill at all, let alone to have his health fail so quickly, and he had been deeply involved in several complex negotiations when he was forced to bed.
Darcy had been summoned from London, where he had been acting as his father’s agent with their solicitors, and within two months, his father was gone.
It had been a painful stomach illness, and his father had suffered terribly.
They had been unable to get much work done together during the months he was incapacitated; between caring for his father, seeing to his sister, wrapping up the finer points of Richard’s inheritance, and completing just enough business to keep everything from going under, he had been exhausted at the end.
Exhausted, yet facing a great deal of work left to be done and a young sister in his charge.
Facing the rest of his life without his father had seemed especially cruel given how long it had taken them to find their way with one another.
Knowing what he did now, he would be forever grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Russell for their interference, for encouraging George Darcy to finally act with regards to his godson.
It had given the Darcy men the time they needed to repair their relationship, and by the time George Darcy had fallen ill, his son had felt secure in his father’s esteem.
He knew it would have dogged him his entire life had they not made their peace.
The last two years they had together had been a gift.
This afternoon, at last feeling as though he had some sense of mastery over the workings of the estate, Darcy had been thinking about his father.
He had wandered up to this room for a purpose.
“I was wondering,” he said somberly to his housekeeper, “where the drawing of Georgiana and my father has gone.” He motioned to a bare spot on the wall of the blue sitting room.
“It typically hangs there, does it not?” This had been his mother’s favorite room in the family wing, and his father and sister had taken to sitting there of an evening while he was away at school.
A small pianoforte was placed in one corner facing the rest of the space, and behind it had hung a drawing of a young Georgiana and her father, done in charcoal.
It was not a valuable drawing; he was not concerned that it had been stolen, but it was of great worth to him.
“Oh.” The housekeeper pursed her lips. “I believe Miss Darcy took it with her to London.”
Darcy nodded silently. Georgiana had left for London under protest. She did not wish to part from him, nor did he wish her to go, but this was now a bachelor household and they were months past first mourning.
He had no desire or intention to entertain, but he had to decide what was best, what was proper.
His aunt had agreed that Georgiana should go to school.
They had both been invited to Matlock House for Christmas, and afterward, he would remain in London, near enough to take her to church on Sundays.
If only Richard were here, he thought. He desperately needed to talk to someone, have someone tell him plainly whether he was making a hash of it all.
His cousin was currently abroad, having taken up a position in a regiment under Wellesley.
For now, that meant Denmark, but who knew where he would be next.
This was what he had trained for, and he was an exceptional officer--but he was sorely missed.
His cousin need not even be in the army, now.
George Darcy had made Richard Georgiana’s co-guardian.
To fulfill that duty, he had written in his will, Richard should be in England.
He had therefore left his nephew enough money and property to establish himself as a landed gentleman.
The problem was that in all these months, nobody had been able to find Richard to tell him of his inheritance.
They had received a few brief missives from Captain Fitzwilliam, posted from different places, but until he wrote again it was impossible to know whether their letters had found him.
He realized that his housekeeper was still waiting for a response.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said. “If my sister wished to keep it with her, all is well.” He dismissed her.
After the door closed behind her, he sat heavily on the settee, contemplating another dinner alone, and thinking about how drastically his life had changed.