Chapter Five
After they had finished eating—or rather, after Caroline had shifted in her seat enough times that Georgiana had sighed again
and got up from the table, gesturing for her friend to follow—they ended up in the library. Caroline supposed she shouldn’t
be surprised by this; it was, after all, Georgiana’s favourite room in the house, which she loved even more than her personal
sitting room, but Caroline had thought that the Great Endeavour might begin in a more exciting place than the very same room
they sat in day after day.
She slowed to a stop as Georgiana spun to face her, eyes alight with amusement. “Your first lesson begins here,” Miss Darcy
said. “We will go on a tour of the house, and I wish you to find at least two or three things to praise in every room.”
“That does not seem so hard.” Caroline glanced around.
Her mother had always imposed on her the care and attention with which one ought to pay to the smallest of details, and Pemberley offered ample opportunity to wax poetic.
“Why, in this room alone I could find a dozen such objects deserving of the highest compliments. The fireplace, for example—did not your brother once tell me that the mantelpiece was made of marble?” She cast an approving eye towards the object in question, noting that even though the stone was dark, it had been polished enough to glint in the flickering light of the fire below.
“It is one of the most elegant I have ever seen.”
“Very good.”
Caroline wasn’t finished, though. She had been set a challenge and was determined that she would pass it with flying colours.
“I have long admired the candlesticks, too, for this room needs a little more light than others. And the portraits, particularly
this one”—she gestured at the only painting in the room which did not frighten the life out of her—“of your . . . paternal
great-grandmother?”
“You are correct.” Georgiana smiled at the depiction, which featured a woman seated, hands folded in her lap, long, fair hair
cascading down her back.
Something which had been nagging at Caroline for the last few days tripped off her tongue without thought. “Though I do think
that, perhaps, the room could benefit from a little . . . refreshment.” She had, after all, completed Georgiana’s task, so
surely, she ought to be allowed her opinion now, particularly if it could help refine the room into a perfect, stylish haven.
“Refreshment?” Georgiana blinked. “You mean a tea trolley?”
“No, my dear friend. I mean that these couches, while beautiful, are rather old-fashioned now. At the very least, this one
requires a complete reupholstering. Look,” she said, bending to poke at the nearest one. “There’s very nearly a hole worn
through here. Whatever would a visitor think?”
Before she could straighten, a hand closed around her other wrist, tugging her firmly away. “Please do not touch that,” Georgiana
said. Her voice was calm, but a muscle jumped in her jaw.
Surprised, Caroline dropped her hand to her side.
Miss Darcy was not prone to fits of temper or indignation.
“Suit yourself. I am sure that your brother could easily arrange for it to be altered. Why, you would not need to be inconvenienced at all. In fact, my father spoke of a fellow who could, for an additional fee, complete a task overnight, which really—”
“Let us proceed,” Georgiana said, and then marched from the room.
Caroline followed, equally baffled by this response and by the stiffening of Georgiana’s shoulders, but by the time they’d
reached the picture gallery, Miss Darcy seemed to have reverted to her usual, placid self. “And what of this room?” she asked,
this time not turning to face Caroline, but stopping to stare up at the two magnificent portraits of her parents which hung
in the centre of the room.
The picture gallery was, by anyone’s standards, a lovely place to linger. The portraits here were more modern and looked far
less foreboding than the ones which hung in the library. Caroline’s gaze was drawn, as it always was, towards the image of
the late Mr and Mrs Darcy, who had been painted individually. Mr Darcy, with his mop of curly fair hair, looked so much like
Georgiana that it was uncanny; the same straight, perfectly-shaped nose, the same gentle curve to the lips, which signified
a happy soul at rest. Fitzwilliam had evidently inherited his mother’s black hair and angular jaw, though Mrs Darcy’s beautiful
dark eyes lived on in both of her children. Georgiana cast only a cursory glance over her parents, moving quickly to stand
in front of several framed drawings.
Caroline followed, peering over her shoulder.
These were Georgiana’s own creations—really, was there anything the girl could not do with grace and elegance?
—and each rendered some person or scene in exquisite detail.
Any visitor to the house with even a passing acquaintance with the family would easily recognise Darcy himself, lounging in a meadow while his horse grazed in the background, or the exterior of Pemberley, drawn with the most minute attention paid to every brick.
“I suppose that is the source of all your talents, really,” Caroline said, not quite meaning to say it out loud.
Georgiana glanced at her, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “Pardon?”
Caroline gestured at the drawings. “You pay such attention to detail. Much more so than other people.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, certainly. People are not so observant as one would always hope, you know,” Caroline said loftily. Though there was only
three and a half years between them, she had always felt the urge to instruct Georgiana on all her views. When one had such
excellent opinions, it was one’s duty to spread them as far and wide as possible; she would be doing a disservice to the world
to keep them to herself. “They do not pay attention to what is most important.”
“Indeed,” Georgiana said, her lips twitching. “And you do?”
“Of course I do. For example, I note that here”—she pointed at the rendering of Darcy—“you have drawn most carefully that
lock of hair which insists upon falling over his left eye, no matter how he has it cut. And this is the horse which, if I
am not mistaken, lived to a great old age and sired many of the creatures in your stable today.”
In fairness, the beast was an unmistakable one, for it had a distinctive blaze running from forelock to nose. “Newton,” Georgiana
supplied. “The best horse who ever lived. Apart from my Swift, of course.”
Caroline pulled a face, making sure Georgiana could not see it.
She’d never really understood Georgiana’s bond with animals of all sizes.
To her, a horse was simply a carriage that required more upkeep.
A carriage, at least, did not have to stop at regular intervals on the road to excrete.
Swift was a rather handsome beast by horse standards, but he was still just a horse in Caroline’s opinion, and as such, was interchangeable with any of a dozen others.
“Wait a moment,” Caroline said, only now noticing a new picture which had been added on the left. “That was not here last
time I visited.” She leaned closer, a tendril of Georgiana’s hair tickling her cheek. Jane and Charles, looking into each
other’s eyes as they danced, his hand on her slender waist, her hand on his shoulder. Their smiles were joyful and pure, full
of love, as if they had forgotten that the rest of the world existed.
“I drew the original picture as a present for them to hang in Netherfield, if it pleases them to do so, but the image of their
happiness was so beautiful that I couldn’t help replicating it here. Besides, it’s nice to have pictures of friends as well
as family.”
Georgiana’s tone was surprisingly wistful. With a stab of annoyance, Caroline realised that a similar picture of Miss Elizabeth
Bennet and Mr Darcy would likely follow in due course. What would they be doing? Dancing, or walking together, or reading
their beloved books, side by side? Her lip curled in distaste.
“I am working on one now, in fact, though I cannot quite seem to get it right.” Georgiana shook herself, as if remembering
what they’d come here for. “In any case, observing my drawings is not a compliment.”
“Whyever not? I did say they were exquisite, did I not?”
“I am loath to contradict you, but you merely commented that my attention to detail was . . . How did you phrase it? The source of all my talents?” She looked amused.
“Sometimes I forget that you cannot hear my very thoughts.” Caroline stepped back, giving Georgiana room to turn around. “Very
well. I shall repeat out loud that your drawings are exquisite, though you already know this to be true.”
“I know no such thing.”
Caroline rolled her eyes, turning to face the rest of the room. “This room has a very pleasant air to it. I might even call
it contemplative. It speaks to the reverence with which you and your brother hold your family. And of course, you know that
your mama and papa were both very handsome. I cannot imagine that there is a single person in your family who could not be
described as exceedingly handsome.” She turned to look at the portrait of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who was Georgiana and
Fitzwilliam’s aunt. “See? Stern, yes, but an undeniably pretty woman.” Stern hardly covered it, for the lady seemed to glare out of her painting as if the very act of being captured on canvas personally
affronted her. Yet in the dark slash of her eyebrows, the high cheekbones, the perfect rosebud mouth, one could see at a glance
that here was good breeding indeed. “You know, these chairs really do not suit this room. They are far too high-backed. And
where are the cushions? How can you expect someone to sit and regard these magnificent portraits in comfort?”
Georgiana’s look of annoyance did not go unnoticed. “Come. Let us go upstairs.”