Chapter 23 #2
“And you have always been a devoted brother.” Richard glanced towards the window. “A devotion that has recently expanded to include visits to view landscapes of the Peak, a part of England that you know as well as any artist. Better.”
Georgiana turned back at once. “Did you say views of the Peak? Oh, I hope there are some. Miss Elizabeth would like the Peak, I think.” She blushed. “Or perhaps I only imagined that because I do.”
“I often find that my friendships are improved when I invent a few harmless facts to support them,” Richard said.
It was only a mile from Upper Brook Street to Pall Mall, and soon they were walking into the long, light rooms of the British Institution. They quickly located the Bennet ladies and their aunt, who were admiring the Welsh paintings.
Darcy saw Miss Elizabeth identify them. She was not surprised that he had come—Georgiana had surely informed them that her brother would convey her in his own carriage—but there was a new wariness in her expression that was quickly extinguished, leaving a sort of blankness in its place.
Then Mrs. Gardiner turned. “Miss Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Colonel.”
They all greeted one another. Miss Elizabeth made a remark about the weather, but otherwise replied to his inquiries so briefly that the conversation ended nearly before it had begun.
The Institution was not crowded, but neither was their party ever alone. Catalogues rustled. Opinions passed in murmurs from one visitor to the next. Every so often a disagreement rose above them, spoken loudly and with great confidence on both sides.
“Now that,” said a stout gentleman, waving at a painting, “is atmosphere.”
“There is certainly a great deal of it,” said his friend. “I cannot even find the boats.”
“The boats are immaterial. The artist has given us the light.”
“He has given us the fog.”
“That golden mass, at the centre—”
“Is either the sunrise or a fire in the rigging. I cannot tell which, and I do not think Mr. Robertson could either.”
Georgiana was already standing beside Miss Elizabeth as they studied a view of hills and water. She must have heard the men—not a difficult endeavour—because she asked, “Do you think the artist uses the light well?” She tipped her head first one way and then the other.
“I have not yet decided,” Miss Elizabeth replied. “I am attempting to determine whether the light improves the landscape or merely persuades us not to notice its faults.”
Darcy almost smiled. He stepped closer. “Miss Elizabeth, I believe this is one of the Derbyshire views.”
She turned to him. “Is it?”
“Yes. The valley beyond the water is near—”
“Lizzy,” Miss Bennet called from a few feet away. “You must come and see this one. Aunt Gardiner knows the prospect and says the view is remarkably well done.”
Miss Elizabeth looked between them. “I would not wish to keep my aunt waiting.”
“Of course.”
She offered him a small smile, the kind one might offer a slight acquaintance, offered Georgiana her arm, and went to join Miss Bennet and her aunt.
Darcy remained before the painting.
Richard appeared beside him a moment later, hands folded behind his back and his eyes on the landscape.
“You appear to be having some difficulty.”
“I am looking at the landscape.”
“Are you? I had thought you were attempting to determine why a certain lady has become less inclined to look at you.”
Darcy glanced at him. “This is not helpful.”
“That is because I have not yet begun to help.” Richard turned towards the party, waited exactly long enough to make Darcy suspect him of planning something, and then crossed to Mrs. Gardiner.
“Mrs. Gardiner,” Richard said, with a bow. “Darcy knows this view better than any of us. He can tell you whether the painter has been faithful.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked amused. “And is Mr. Darcy often severe with painters?”
“Only when they have been careless enough to paint places he knows.”
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes came to Darcy then, unwillingly perhaps, but with interest.
Darcy could either murder his cousin in a public gallery or offer his insight. It was a nearer thing than it ought to have been.
“The road is accurate enough,” he said. “But the slope beyond it has been softened. It is steeper, and the bridge lies lower. The painter has made the whole scene less wild and untamed than it is.”
“A common kindness in art,” Miss Elizabeth said. “Though I imagine it is more typically applied to portraits.” It was the first remark she had offered him without being pressed.
Darcy turned to her. “Do you think art should be kind?”
“Not always. But it need not be a looking glass. The best part of art is when it shows us more than we see on our own.”
Richard looked at the painting again. “I knew I liked art.”
Georgiana laughed. Miss Bennet smiled, and Mrs. Gardiner turned her attention to the painting with a determinedly innocent expression, not unlike the one she had worn in the park the day he apologised.
Miss Elizabeth did not laugh, but her countenance softened just a bit. It was not much, but it made Darcy forget, briefly, that she was avoiding him.
“Do you know this place well?” Georgiana asked him.
“Well enough. It lies on one of the roads outside of Bakewell on the way to Matlock, easier to access when riding. In spring the banks are full of primroses. Later in the year there are bluebells in the wood above it, though they are seldom as blue in paintings as they are in my memory.”
“There,” Richard said. “That is exactly the sort of thing I meant. Darcy is a valuable man to have nearby at an exhibition such as this.”
“Richard,” Georgiana said, half reproving and half amused, “you must come and see the flower studies with Miss Bennet and me. There are lilies and carnations and so many others.”
“I shall follow where you lead, Cousin,” Richard said. “I am eager to discover what flowers look like when they are not outdoors.” He tossed Darcy a look that said he had done his part and then he followed Georgiana and Miss Bennet.
Darcy found himself beside Miss Elizabeth again, with Mrs. Gardiner only a few feet away.
It was not privacy, but it was a considerable improvement upon silence.
“Are the flowers truly bluer in Derbyshire than they appear here?” she asked. “For these seem very like the ones I have seen.”
“It is not that they are bluer, I suppose,” Darcy said. “Only that a painter is unable to capture the coolness of the wood, or the damp ground, or the way the blue changes almost to purple when the light and shadows move. He preserves only a static moment.”
Miss Elizabeth looked back at the painting. “Then the artist has been given a difficult subject.”
“Indeed. Derbyshire is full of such difficulties.”
She glanced at him then, and for one brief instant her expression was almost what it had been on Thursday, before—