Amanda Grange & Jacqueline Webb (7 page)

There came a drunken shout from inside, followed by the sound of someone falling over, and then a window opened overhead, and a woman peered out.

“Aw, my life, it's a swell,” she said, before shutting the window and running heavily downstairs to open the door.

“I am here to see Mr Inkworthy,” said Darcy.

“Yes, sir, right this way, sir,” said the woman, wiping her greasy hands on her even greasier apron.

Darcy followed her into the ill-lit interior and up several flights of rickety stairs, until she stopped on the uppermost landing, which was inches deep in dust.

“'Ere you are, sir,” she said, bobbing him something that resembled a curtsey and holding out her hand.

Darcy put a coin into it and knocked on the attic door. A familiar voice called, “Come in,” and Darcy opened the door, walking into the large attic room with a sharp sense of interest. It was bare of any furniture, save for a bed, a table, and a chair; but canvases, sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and all the paraphernalia of an artist's studio filled the large space. An easel stood over by the east-facing window, and on it stood a painting, while in the corner farthest from the easel, cleaning a paintbrush, was Paul Inkworthy.

The artist had his back to him, and Darcy had a chance to examine him for a moment, curious to know more about the young man who was to accompany them on their travels.

Mr Inkworthy looked much the same as he had on their previous meeting, and yet there was something different about him. He was still tall and thin—Darcy found himself wondering when the man had last had a good meal—and his dark, curly hair still fell in an unruly profusion over his collar, but he had an air of confidence about him that had been lacking before. It was evident in the line of his back and the angle of his head.

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. Before, Inkworthy had been in someone else's salon. Here, he was in his own studio, the master of all he surveyed—a small domain, it was true, but one full of riches.

Darcy walked over to the easel and was surprised to see a half-finished portrait of Elizabeth standing on it.

“Ah, yes,” came a voice at his side.

He turned to see Mr Inkworthy, who had joined him noiselessly and was looking critically at his own work.

“You have painted my wife,” said Darcy.

Some of the artist's former nervousness returned.

“Yes,” he said, uncertainly, as if he realised he had committed a
faux
pas
by painting another man's wife when not expressly asked to do so. But then the artist in him took over and he said, “I could not resist. It is the eyes, you see, they are so very fine. I noticed them as soon as I was introduced to her. It is not just the colour and shape, nor the fineness of the lashes, but the expression in them. It is extraordinary.”

He stood looking at his portrait, lost in thought.

“You have caught it very well,” said Darcy, impressed.

“No.” The artist shook his head. “I have caught something of it, it is true, but my memory failed me at a critical juncture. I should have taken a sketch at the time but I neglected to do so, for which I have been cursing myself ever since. I could not remember the light in them, the exact glow, the sense of spirit… But I will capture it, I promise you. Now that I am to go to Egypt with you, I will have time to study those eyes at my leisure.”

“Which brings me to the object of my visit,” said Darcy. “
Mrs
Darcy and I”—he caught himself stressing
Mrs
, since the young man was so appreciative of Elizabeth, and since the artist possessed a certain charm. “
Mrs
Darcy and I would like you to join us at Darcy House tomorrow, so that you may spend a few days with us prior to setting out on our journey. It will give you an opportunity to become acquainted with us, with our children, and with our travelling companions: my cousin, the Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam; and a family friend, Miss Sophie Lucas.”

Mr Inkworthy looked dazzled at such a prospect but managed to murmur his thanks. “I will need to bring my things with me,” he added. “I hope there will be room for them all?”

“I am sure we can accommodate them,” said Darcy with a smile, remembering the size of Darcy House—remembering, too, the spacious quarters he had arranged for them on the ship he had commissioned to take them to Egypt and the size of the house he had rented there.

The artist looked relieved, saying, “Then I will join you tomorrow, if that is convenient.”

Now that the business was concluded, some of Inkworthy's former nervousness returned, as though he was suddenly conscious once again that his visitor was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, a man who could buy his studio and everything in it a hundred times, nay a thousand times over, and never notice what he spent. Remembering, too, that Darcy had a fine and imposing figure, which made his own spare frame seem even more scrawny, and a face which would have put a more handsome man than Paul Inkworthy to shame.

“Very well,” said Darcy, adding the final, unwitting, touch to the younger man's sense of his inferior place in the world by saying, “I will send the carriage.”

***

While Darcy was busy with Paul Inkworthy, Elizabeth was busy overseeing the preparation of the rooms for their guests. Having satisfied herself that everything was just as she wanted it, she finalised the list of essential and desirable things they should take with them and then went into the drawing room, where the children were playing.

“Have you any questions?” she asked them. “We will be leaving in a week, and everything must be ready by then.”

Beth asked her mother's advice on which clothes she should take, a sure sign she was gradually leaving childhood behind and beginning to walk the path toward womanhood; William wondered if his allowance would be sufficient for him to bring some curios back to England; John wrote to Colonel Fitzwilliam, telling his idol that he would be visiting the scene of the Battle of Aboukir Bay; and Laurence chased a squealing Jane around the room, pretending to be a crocodile. Only Margaret was quiet, listening to her doll and then saying gravely that Aahotep was glad to be going home.

When she had answered the children's questions, Elizabeth relinquished them into the care of various tutors and governesses. She went out into the garden, where Darcy soon joined her.

“How peaceful it is!” said Elizabeth, as they walked along arm-in-arm. “There is nothing better than the London garden in July. It is small compared to the grounds at Pemberley, I know, but it is a haven of beauty and tranquillity, especially when the roses are in bloom.”

She breathed in deeply to catch their scent.

Darcy stopped and picked one, then, stripping off the thorns, he put it in Elizabeth's hair.

“You are not regretting it?” he asked, looking deep into her eyes. “Our holiday will be anything but peaceful. You know what the Potheroes said; there is a great deal of noise and bustle in Cairo, and it lacks the luxuries we have here.”

“I know, but I am not regretting it; quite the contrary, I am looking forward to it. But I still welcome moments like these, when we have time entirely to ourselves.”

“Then let us make the most of them before our guests arrive,” said Darcy, bending his head to kiss her.

Those few precious hours spent together refreshed their spirits, and when they went inside they were ready to welcome their guests, who would be shortly arriving.

Having sent the carriage for Mr Inkworthy, they gathered together the children and settled themselves in the formal drawing room. They were joined by Edward, who was eager to meet their guests.

Mr Paul Inkworthy was the first to arrive.

He entered the drawing room hesitantly, overawed by his surroundings, but he was welcomed cordially and invited to sit down.

He perched on the edge of a
chaise
longue
and answered Elizabeth's questions as to the comfort of his journey, his health, and the weather nervously, while all the time looking at her with an artist's eye. He was introduced to the children and then to Edward, and he greeted them all with slightly less nervousness, again studying them with the peculiarly alert gaze of the artist.

As they continued to talk, his eyes wandered to the paintings adorning the walls, and Darcy said, “What do you think of my collection?”

“Good,” said Mr Inkworthy, nodding thoughtfully, “although that one is, I think, inferior.”

He spoke without any wish to offend, conscious only of the artistic merit of the piece.

“Indeed?” asked Darcy, interested.

Mr Inkworthy nodded, giving his reasons, and Beth surprised them all by joining in.

Mr Inkworthy looked at her in some surprise and then asked, “Do you paint?”

Beth nodded, pleased to be spoken to as an adult, and fetched one of her paintings, a watercolour of the garden.

“Interesting,” said Mr Inkworthy as he took it, studying it at arm's length. “The colour is remarkable for one so young, and the…”

But unfortunately for Beth, who was glowing under the praise, the door opened at that moment, and Sophie Lucas walked into the room. Paul was struck dumb and rose slowly to his feet, captivated by her ethereal beauty. Edward, too, could only stand and stare as she made her way into the room, followed by her parents.

Elizabeth stepped forward to greet her, noting with satisfaction that Sophie's eyes had flickered slightly at the obvious effect she was having on the two young men. Such undisguised admiration was just what Sophie needed to restore her vitality, in Elizabeth's opinion, having been jilted by a young man who had led her on to satisfy his own vanity and then left her for an heiress.

Although the flicker in Sophie's eyes quickly died, it was a start, and Elizabeth looked forward to seeing what a few months in their company, in the exotic and colourful country to which they were heading, would do for her young friend.

The introductions had hardly been performed when Mrs Bennet made her entrance, calling out, “There you are, Lizzy. You have a new sofa, I see. And where are my grandchildren?” she cried, opening her arms to them and doing everything in her power to excite them.

Beth bobbed a curtsey, William shook his grandmother's hand, and John stood to attention, while Laurence and Jane flung themselves at their beloved grandmama, and Margaret embraced her knees.

“How you have all grown!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet. “I declare you are the tallest children for your age I have ever seen. Are they not, Lady Lucas?”

Lady Lucas remarked that her own grandchildren were taller, and Mrs Bennet replied that no, she had seen the Lucas grandchildren but recently, and they were, if anything, small for their age.

Elizabeth sought to divert her mother's attention by asking after her journey. But it was an unfortunate choice of subject, for Mrs Bennet remarked that the Lucas's carriage was very cramped and not at all comfortable.

Luckily, Laurence hit upon a better topic by saying there were no carriages in Egypt, and they would all have to ride on camels. Mrs Bennet said he must take care that the camel did not bite him, to which Laurence replied that the camel must take care that
he
did not bite
it
. Mrs Bennet said he wouldn't, Laurence said he would, and the argument entertained the pair of them until the housekeeper mercifully arrived and showed Mrs Bennet and the Lucases to their rooms.

The children eagerly followed them, hoping for sweetmeats from their indulgent grandmama.

Elizabeth looked at Darcy as the door closed behind them and sank down onto the sofa, laughing. Edward laughed, too, and Mr Inkworthy, looking embarrassed, walked over to the window and effaced himself by admiring the view.

***

“Well,” said Elizabeth to Darcy that evening as they dressed for dinner, finding themselves alone for the first time since luncheon. “What an exhausting afternoon!”

He smiled. “It was certainly entertaining.”

“There was a time when you would have found it horrifying,” Elizabeth said.

“I must have mellowed with age,” he returned. “Besides, it had its satisfying moments. It was good to see Sophie becoming a little more animated.”

“Yes, it was. Both Edward and Paul Inkworthy are very taken with her.”

Darcy looked smug, and on Elizabeth wondering aloud why that was, he said, “Let us just say that I am glad Mr Inkworthy has another object for his attentions.”

“Another?” she asked.

“When I went to see him in his studio, I found him with a half-finished portrait of you on his easel. He was at first uncomfortable to be discovered with it, but he soon lost himself in his enthusiasm for your fine eyes. He had caught them very well, but not well enough for his own satisfaction, and he promised me to do better once he had a chance to study you further.”

“You do not mean you were jealous?” she said as he slid his arm around her waist.

“Jealous?” he asked innocently, kissing her on the neck.

“I do believe you were!” she said.

“Well, and what if I was? I am your husband. I have every right to be jealous if a gifted artist takes a fancy to my wife—even if he is not very handsome.”

“No?” enquired Elizabeth provocatively. “He is not conventionally handsome, perhaps, but there is something very attractive about him. There is no denying he has a certain charm.”

“It is a good thing we are not already on the ship, or I would be tempted to throw him overboard,” Darcy said, nibbling her ear.

“Then perhaps I had better leave him to Sophie,” said Elizabeth. “It will do her good to have two men competing for her attention. Besides, I already have the man I want,” she said happily, turning in the circle of his arms and giving herself up to his embrace.

***

The next few days followed the pattern of the first. Mrs Bennet spoiled her grandchildren, who enjoyed all the attention—all except Beth, who, gratified by a real artist's praise, spent her days at her watercolours, glowing with pride when Paul noticed her efforts and made some kindly remark.