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 reduced health.
Seamstresses required. Several households sought governesses, yet each post demanded accomplishments beyond the ordinary—French, Italian, 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 full scenes, portraits in oil, and miniatures. Samples must be submitted. Remuneration exceedingly handsome for the right hand. 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.
Samples to be submitted, and the remuneration was handsome.
Darcy opened the desk’s little drawer and found unblotted 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 for an artist of exceptional skill, I beg leave to submit a small example of my hand.
If my work pleases, I should be honored to wait upon you at whatever hour you appoint.
I am prepared to undertake both oil portraits and miniatures, and I work with efficiency 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 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 a letter to St. James’s Street, to the address written here, and this painting. I fear to trust it 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 and shoes—and 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 fine 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 eventually must leave, I will ensure all is well.”
“Are you terribly worried still?”
“Merely cautious,” she murmured. “I must always be. If the earl returns soon, we may learn his intentions. If they prove unacceptable, I will secure a position, take a suitable house, and make our own plans for the future.”
Emelia nodded and rested her head against Darcy’s shoulder.
For the first time since Hertfordshire, possibility felt like a slender thread she might truly hold.
She would not 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 feel the dual emotion of hope wrestling with dread.
What she wanted was a friend’s steady shoulder, or a solution that did not vanish when touched.
Beautiful dark-blue eyes intruded upon her thoughts, and Darcy caught her breath, frantically shoving them aside.
As if to mock her will, the memory of the night in the bedchamber, when she had, by accident, invited him inside, pricked at her.
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. She refused to dwell upon a gentleman’s beautiful eyes or the cold indifference that had cut like a knife.