Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

D arcy tugged his hands through his hair. “She feels that I have betrayed her.”

Richard stopped polishing Constance. Her blade gleamed. “It is Wickham’s death that has brought this on. She might have hoped still.”

That did not appease Darcy. “I have to retrieve the painting.” Thank goodness the Rembrandt was safe with a gentleman to whom he was pleased to make a generous offer. Darcy could return with Georgiana to Pemberley at the end of the month, and the Bennets would benefit from the proceeds of a mutually beneficial arrangement. The painting was as good as his. Perhaps Georgiana would wish to invite the eldest Misses Bennet for a visit…

Richard resumed polishing. “Never fear, Darcy, I shall keep watch here. Go keep your promise.”

Darcy needed no further incitement. By the time he rode back to Longbourn’s courtyard, the rest of the household had returned from Meryton. They received him warmly, though no one was as enthusiastic as Mrs. Bennet. Darcy enjoyed how her direct comments made Miss Elizabeth blush. Had he not called for a specific purpose, he would have enjoyed their conversation more.

He hoped Mr. Bennet might make an appearance—it would certainly make Darcy’s request easier—but ten minutes of mundane chitchat failed to produce the gentleman. He began to fear the gentleman was not in.

Those ten minutes of conversation revealed another difficulty that Darcy would have considered sooner had his mind not been so singly focused on recovering Georgiana’s inheritance. How could Darcy request a private audience with Mr. Bennet without raising certain expectations?

He found himself only half attending to Mrs. Bennet’s chatter until she stopped speaking and looked at him expectantly. Having no clue what she had just said but knowing better than to nod in agreement to anything a matron with unmarried daughters could say, he looked to Miss Elizabeth for help.

She smiled knowingly and replied for him. “I fear you have overwhelmed Mr. Darcy with so many details, but I believe it is safe to surmise that he would agree that Uncle Philips’s decision to increase Mr. Goode’s salary based on his years of faithful service and his efficiency as a clerk was a good decision with an honorable motive.”

Darcy was happy to agree, though he could not fathom how the conversation had taken such a turn. Before Mrs. Bennet could begin down another confounding trail, he spoke. “Is Mr. Bennet in?”

The lady was all attention. “You wish to speak with Mr. Bennet?”

“I had hoped to, yes.”

“Mary, be a dear and go get your father.”

That did not suit Darcy at all, nor did the likely consequences of what he must say next. “There is no need. I wish to speak with him privately.”

“A private word with Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet repeated, her complexion pink with pleasure. Before Darcy could disabuse her of her obvious assumption, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall. “How wonderful! Of course, you will have it immediately. Mr. Bennet is quite at his leisure and will be happy to receive you.”

She pounded on the door at the end of the hall, not stopping until Mr. Bennet opened it, and then she shoved Darcy inside. He imagined her crouching on the other side of the door, her ear pressed against the keyhole.

The Master of Longbourn stood, bowed, and gestured to a chair. “Mr. Darcy, welcome to my inner sanctuary. It is an honor, albeit an unexpected one, to receive you. Again. I do hope you are prepared to suffer the consequences of your call?”

It struck Darcy that the man did not believe this call might stem from a romantic inclination. The thought might be unwarranted and unhelpful toward his purpose, but it did not sit well with him. Did Mr. Bennet not believe his own daughters marriageable? Was their situation so desperate that the prospect of a suitor was inconceivable? Was it not the gentleman’s priority to see them securely settled?

Mr. Bennet might make light of his daughters’ futures, but Darcy would not. He motioned at the piece of art. “It is a rare household who can boast a Rembrandt.”

Miss Elizabeth had inherited Mrs. Bennet’s curls and cinnamon-brown eyes, but her smile and the spark in her eye came from her father. “You know Rembrandt, Mr. Darcy? I have only my Lizzy with whom to share my appreciation of art, and even she mistook it for a copy. To her credit, she has only seen pictures of the masters in the books in this library.”

“My family had a Rembrandt in our art gallery. I would recognize his work anywhere.”

Mr. Bennet did not pale or flinch. He turned toward the painting, his posture relaxed and his voice reverent. “It is a masterpiece.”

It occurred to Darcy that securing the painting might not be as simple as he had thought. He prepared to loosen the strings of his money pouch.

Mr. Bennet continued excitedly. “It is no surprise that an artist who devoted himself to portraiture would include the features of the face in his landscape. One might consider this particular work to be a self-portrait of Rembrandt himself. The eyes”—he stood to point at the bridge arches, one in light on the left and the other on the right in shadow—“his hair like these clouds swooping over the bridge.”

These were observations Darcy had only heard from other professional artists before. The more Mr. Bennet spoke, the less confident Darcy felt that he would convince the man to part with the painting… even for a sizable sum.

Returning to his chair, Mr. Bennet sighed contentedly. “Every day I lose myself in this painting, and every day I see a new symbolism.”

Miss Elizabeth had said that her father taught her how to draw, and now Darcy understood how qualified the gentleman was to give instruction. The freeness with which he spoke about the Rembrandt lent Darcy to believe him honest. Darcy tested him further. “How did you come to possess such a piece?”

“The marché ouvert!” he replied with a chuckle. “It is not a place I frequent, nor do I intend ever to return. It took a week to get the stench of the place out of my coat.”

Darcy nodded. He needed more information, seeking an opening he could use to make his offer. “If you do not frequent the market, how did you know to find it there?”

“A clerk in a pawn shop near my brother-in-law’s warehouses in Cheapside told him about it. His employer foolishly dismissed its worth, too sore about how he had been taken in by a charming young gentleman dressed in a fine coat.”

Wickham. Darcy’s pulse quickened, but he maintained a cool demeanor. “I daresay the shopkeeper was not the first to be fooled by such a man.”

“He must have had a silver tongue to convince a man whose expertise lay in weaponry and jewelry to purchase a piece of art. The shop owner sold it to the old woman I purchased it from, a woman who did not appear to have two pennies to rub together. I suppose he was happy to be rid of it and the sour memory its sight conjured. I, of course, was overjoyed to give the painting a proper place.”

Darcy considered how best to proceed. “If a gentleman were to offer you a considerable sum, would you sell it?”

“Never! No amount of money could persuade me to part with it.”

Darcy had expected a refusal, but not one so vehement. He attempted another approach. “Surely your estate would benefit, as would your daughters.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. Gone was the light-hearted instructor, replaced by a hard-nosed protector. “To what do I credit your interest in my painting, sir? I assure you, it is not for sale.”

It felt as though Darcy stared at the ends of two revolver muzzles. There was nothing to do but speak directly and to the point. “That painting, the one on your wall, has been the property of the Darcy family for the past two centuries. I have the original bill of sale and have only to write to my man of business in London for him to send the proof.”

“Nonsense. ”

Darcy did not expect Mr. Bennet to believe him without irrefutable proof. The man was not a simpleton. “That charming young man who sold it to the pawnshop stole it from my estate.”

Mr. Bennet shifted his weight in his chair, but the steely resolve in his eyes did not soften. Not wishing him to feel threatened, Darcy added, “I realize that your purchase in the marché ouvert was made in good faith, but I assure you that I in no way sanctioned the sale of my family’s Rembrandt. Therefore, I am willing to pay a handsome price to restore what was lost to its rightful place.”

Mr. Bennet stood, his face red. “Its rightful place is here.”

“Pray, think of the improvements you could make to your estate.” Darcy kept his tone calm.

“Longbourn is dead to me,” was the dismissive answer.

“Think of your daughters’ futures.”

Mr. Bennet looked like a teapot about to scream. “Are my affairs in such an obvious state of negligence that you feel obligated to come to my assistance? Who are you to play the hero?”

Slowly, Darcy raised his palms, his voice as gentle as he could manage. “My intention is not to offend. Far from it. My wish is to make an agreement from which we would both benefit.”

“This Rembrandt is all I have! I shall not part with it while I live and breathe!”

Darcy had anticipated various arguments and prepared rebuttals that would persuade Mr. Bennet, but he had not anticipated this. This was a dead end! Hanging not six feet from him, the painting was as far out of reach as it had been when it was lost. Until this moment, he had never known true frustration.

Again, he appealed to the gentleman’s better judgment. “It is a valuable work of art, and it is exposed here. I can keep it safer at Pemberley.”

“And yet, according to you, the painting was stolen from your property!”

Growing desperate, Darcy argued, “What is to happen to it when you are no longer the master of Longbourn?”

“What business of yours is that?”

“I intend to see my family’s painting restored, Mr. Bennet. If you will agree to accept payment for the painting now while you can still benefit from it, then the painting can come to me after your death.”

“No.”

To be so easily dismissed smacked of determined stubbornness. Darcy was near his wit’s end. “Think of your daughters. What I suggest gives you a means to provide for them even after you are gone.”

Mr. Bennet leaned over the desk, his whole body shaking. “I want you out of my house!”

Darcy stood, hands still raised to make one last appeal. “Surely their welfare is more important to you than a painting.”

“You stay away from them! Stay away from me! Leave us be!” Mr. Bennet pointed at the door .

Anger burned through Darcy. Never had he met a man more unreasonable and determined for ruin than this man. Shoulders stiff, head tall and proud, Darcy left the room, leaving the door open behind him. Let the ninny close it himself.

“Do not call again! I forbid it!” Mr. Bennet’s shout resounded through the quiet house.

Before Darcy reached the front door, Mrs. Bennet fluttered to his side. “Mr. Darcy, surely you are not leaving so soon?”

He bowed his head, not wishing to inflict his ire on the poor woman who must endure such a husband. “My apologies, ma’am, but I must depart.”

“When can we expect you to return?” she asked. Her five daughters stood behind her looking confused and concerned. His gaze stopped at Miss Elizabeth.

“He will not return. I forbid it! I forbid any of you from speaking to this man!”

Mr. Bennet’s words reverberated in Darcy’s mind as if they were spoken in a dream. All he could see was Elizabeth.

All the anger, frustration, and disappointment boiling up within him dissipated. She would never be allowed to live a life without concern. Her father offered her no security in the present or any means by which to improve her prospects. The man was the worst sort of fool… but he was her father.

Darcy glanced at the end of the hall. Mr. Bennet lurked in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest and stepped forward .

“Do not say such things, Mr. Bennet! You cannot mean it! Think of the girls!” Mrs. Bennet wailed.

Taking a deep breath, Darcy looked away and pretended he was at a society ball, cold and indifferent. “Forgive me, madam, but I do not have any intention to return.” Turning on his heel, he walked through the door and out to the drive, where a boy held his horse.

The look on Elizabeth’s face haunted him all the way back to Netherfield Park.