Chapter 4 #3
Darcy needed employment. She scanned the columns with practiced speed, letting her gaze pass over opinions and parliamentary reports to reach the notices and advertisements.
A respectable widow was needed to act as housekeeper for a gentleman in declining health.
Seamstresses required. Several households sought governesses, yet each post demanded accomplishments beyond the ordinary: French, Italian, the harp and pianoforte, and painting at a professional level.
Darcy’s hand paused, then moved on. Securing a governess position meant leaving her sisters alone.
Her eye caught a notice set a third of the way down the page.
An artist of exceptional skill is required to execute figure scenes, portraits in oils, and miniatures. Specimens of the artist’s hand must be submitted. Handsome remuneration offered to the successful applicant. Address inquiries to Mrs. R—, Aphrodite, St. James’s Street.
Darcy read it twice. Her pulse gave a small, excited leap.
She had painted all her life for pleasure and for solace, and in these last two years, she had painted at night when the house slept, the steady labor of brush and pigment her refuge when courage flagged.
She had even sold a few portraits in Hertfordshire under the local squire’s patronage, until it was discovered that D. W. was not a gentleman.
Darcy knew the pitfalls. The world was not kind to women who ventured into trades not sanctioned by custom.
She bit her lower lip and read the advert once more.
The request for samples offered her the chance to be judged by her work before her sex.
Darcy opened the desk’s little drawer and found clean writing paper, a pen trimmed to a fine nib, and a small pot of sand. She composed with care:
Dear Mrs. R,
In answer to your advertisement, I beg leave to submit a specimen of my hand. Should my work meet with your approval, I would be honored to wait upon you at whatever hour you appoint. I am prepared to undertake work in oils and miniatures, and I labor with both dispatch and exactness.
Mrs. D. Whitley.
Darcy would not hide her sex from this potential employer.
She folded the sheet, addressed it to Aphrodite, St. James’s Street, and sealed it with a wafer.
Then she knelt by her valise and drew out the small roll she had guarded these many months: a study of geese in flight over a sweep of a Hertfordshire field, the late light of a summer evening caught upon wing and pale sky.
It was a simple piece she had completed last year, yet the movement pleased her still.
She unrolled it upon the bed to be certain nothing was damaged, then rolled it again and tied it with a strip of ribbon saved from a gown too far gone to mend.
A knock sounded, and Kitty reappeared. “Did you ring, ma’am?”
“Would you be so kind as to deliver this letter and painting to the address written here in St. James’s Street? I fear to trust them to the post.”
Kitty’s eyes brightened. “I will take it at once, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
The servant hastened away, and Darcy returned to the window and rested her brow lightly against the glass.
The square was lovely. The house was more than kindness.
The arrangements for dresses, shoes, and even a carriage sat upon her conscience like gifts she did not know how to accept.
Gratitude pressed against caution. Lord Raine had said little.
He had done much. She could not guess whether the balance would hold.
At least their presence here, under the eyes of a full staff and at a respectable address, would discourage the nastiest talk.
A widow with three young ladies to educate, and with some connection to a powerful earl, was, in London’s estimation, a harmless creature.
Emelia entered the chamber, walked over, and looped an arm through hers. “It is beautiful here,” she whispered, as if a louder voice might wake her from a dream. “When you see the library, Darcy, you will swoon with excitement. There are so many titles! I pray we do not have to leave.”
Darcy’s chest tightened. “If we must eventually leave, I shall find us another way. You need not fear.”
“Are you terribly worried still?”
“Merely cautious,” she murmured. “I must always be. When the earl returns, we may learn his intentions. If his plans cannot secure our future, I shall find a position, take a suitable house, and make plans of our own.”.
Emelia nodded and rested her head against Darcy’s shoulder.
For the first time since Hertfordshire, hope felt like a slender thread she might truly hold.
Still, she would not dare to mistake a few days’ shelter for salvation.
She sent Emelia back to Jane and Sarah, then lay upon the grand bed and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to surrender to the hope wrestling with dread inside her.
What she wanted was a friend’s steady counsel, or a solution that did not vanish when touched.
Beautiful dark-blue eyes intruded upon her thoughts, and Darcy caught her breath before firmly banishing them.
As if to mock her will, the memory of the night in the bedchamber, when she had accidentally invited him inside, returned with mortifying clarity.
Her cheeks heated at how keenly she had felt his regard, the way it skimmed over her and lingered in shocking places, sending a flush that gathered low in her belly.
She would not indulge it. Darcy refused to dwell upon a gentleman’s beautiful eyes or the cold indifference that had cut like a knife.