Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

T he next day, Elizabeth wandered the fields between Longbourn and Netherfield Park, hoping to spot Mr. Darcy during his early morning ride while knowing her effort was likely for naught. What if Georgiana or Mr. Bingley was with him? What if he did not ride that morning? Or he rode in the opposite direction? Still, she had to try.

“Where is he, Remy?” she asked her faithful companion. His ears pricked up, and he looked into the morning fog intently as if he had heard a bird.

Expecting a flock to emerge from the dense clouds, Elizabeth was surprised to see two riders materialize from the mist. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam,

“I had hoped our paths might cross.” she said when they rode up to her.

Mr. Darcy did not dismount. “Your father does not wish us to speak. ”

“I am aware of that. Nonetheless, I must speak to you. There are things you must know.”

He showed reluctance but dismounted. The colonel took his reins, wisely inferring that she wished for some privacy. Everything about Mr. Darcy was stiff and formal. No twinkle in the eye or hint of a smile. He nodded curtly, and Elizabeth understood it was her moment to state her case.

Disappointed and determined, she fell in beside him, took a deep breath, and began. “My father is a good man.” Was that a scoff she heard? Her hands clenched. “He did not steal the painting.”

Mr. Darcy looked at her askance, his brow arched. “He bought it at the marché ouvert . Just where do you suppose he thought the painting came from?”

“The market is an acceptable place to purchase art and antiquities. Many gentlemen from established families are known to frequent them, as you must know.”

He turned to face her. “Because I am one of them? I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, that gentlemen of my status do not frequent the market?—”

“Is not the result the same if a gentleman sends a servant in his stead? Do not mistake my meaning, Mr. Darcy .” She enunciated his name, smarting at how formally he had said hers when she had thought he might hold her in higher regard.

He leaned forward, clearly piqued. If he thought he could intimidate her, she would prove how unmoved she could be. Holding her ground, she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, returning his bold, agitated gaze as he stated, “Every piece of art in my family’s possession, without exception, has been bought either directly from the artist or has been passed down from one generation of Darcys to the next.”

His self-righteousness angered her so much, she wanted to scream or stamp her foot… neither of which would help her argue her case. No, she must keep her heart calm and her head cool. Mildness and logic were her allies.

Swallowing her sarcastic comeback, she loosened her arms at her sides. “I do not question your family’s ethics. I have no doubt you descend from a long line of morally upright individuals, but I thank you not to call my father’s character into question. He purchased the painting in good faith.”

“Which is why I offered to purchase it.”

“Y-you what?” She heard him, but she could not believe it. Her father had not mentioned this.

He repeated himself, slower and clearer. “I offered to purchase it.”

What a maddening man! His simple utterance made her swing from one extreme to the other—from self-righteous to magnanimous. She folded her arms around her middle. “That was fair of you,” she said sheepishly.

Every bit of bluster seeped out, leaving her unsteady. The relief she felt at learning her original impression of Mr. Darcy’s character had not been mistaken was immense, but there were many questions she wished she could ask him without appearing heartless and vulgar. How much had he offered? Why should he offer to purchase what had originally been his? Why had he done it?

“My offer was a fair one, considering the worth of the painting and its value to me personally.” There was a tightness in his voice that worked like a vice on her stomach. “Any other gentleman would have accepted my generous offer.”

“But not my father.”

He shook his head, his eyes holding hers. “Not your father.”

She had hoped to appeal to his logic, but his rebuttal was as logical as her argument. If she were to have any chance of convincing him to allow her father to keep the painting, she would have to appeal to his heart. She would have to lay bare the full extent of their circumstances to the very gentleman she would rather impress. Her chest tightened.

Placing her sisters’ futures firmly in her mind and setting aside her own vanity, she started before she could talk herself out of it. “You do not know him as I do. If you did, you would understand why he is unwilling to sell.”

The look he gave her dared her to try to convince him.

Very well. For her sisters. “My father was the third son, an unexpected blessing after ten years since the birth of the second son. As his elder brothers were hale and had reached their majority well before my father did, he received a gentleman’s education at Cambridge with his living at the Longbourn parish secure.”

Mr. Darcy made no comment, but neither did he turn away. He did not believe her yet, but he was listening.

“His eldest brother was taught everything a landowner must learn, and his second brother joined the Navy, his first expedition resulting in the capture of a Spanish pirate ship, from which he earned prize money. My grandfather was pleased, his legacy so secure that he agreed to allow my father to study art on the continent for a year. Art has always been my father’s passion. He was a brilliant painter.” She paused, the memories of her father teaching her how to mix colors and use shading to create depth on a flat page burning her eyes. He did not paint anymore. She had never understood why he stopped.

Mr. Darcy’s narrowed gaze locked on her, but he made no objection. She could not read his expression, but she had begun the story and must now finish it or he would never understand what she desperately needed him to. “My father sought out the masters and the artists who painted for the best families, some of them for royalty. He learned from them, and he practiced for hours every day. He said it was heaven.

“But it did not last. Five months after he had settled, he got a letter from his mother summoning him to return.” Elizabeth took a shaky breath. She could not think of this period in her father’s history without imagining how devastated she would have felt in his situation.

Mr. Darcy did not ask what happened, but she saw the curiosity in his look.

“My grandfather learned that his second son’s ship would port in Southampton. He had not seen him for two years and was eager for a reunion. Together with his eldest son, they traveled to Southampton, taking a blanket my grandmother had embroidered and pieced together as well as a basket packed with his favorite treats from the kitchen. It must have been a happy meeting…at least I pray it was.”

She saw Mr. Darcy swallow hard. “What happened?” he asked.

“A terrible fever ravaged the ship, taking many good men, my grandfather and two uncles included. They returned to Longbourn in long, wooden boxes, arriving the same day my grandmother finally received the letter wrapped with a black ribbon conveying the notice. It happened so fast and unexpectedly, she never recovered from the shock.”

Mr. Darcy groaned.

“My grandmother penned a letter to my father immediately, begging him to hurry home.”

“Did he make it in time?” The edge was gone from Mr. Darcy’s tone.

“She died before Father could see her again.” Elizabeth tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She had never known her grandparents or her uncles on her father’s side, but the thought of losing all of them at once never failed to overwhelm her with sadness.

“Nobody should suffer so much loss at once.” There was an anger in Mr. Darcy’s tone that lent her hope. Better that he be angry at the circumstances which had led to her father’s plight than at her father.

“It was a heavy burden to thrust on a young man of twenty-one years. In an instant, my father lost his entire family along with his dream. There was no time to grieve.”

“Who did he have to guide him?”

“A dishonest steward who took advantage of my father’s ignorance, the tenants who followed the steward’s lead, and the selfish neighbors with unmarried daughters they pushed him to marry. Each of them gave him conflicting advice.”

Mr. Darcy scoffed. “They were looking out for their own interests. Was there no one he could trust?”

“His father’s solicitor in Meryton.”

“Your grandfather?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Grandfather encouraged him to marry my mother within the year. My mother might have been better suited for him had my father not been so weak when they married. He craved peace, so he indulged her whims. Between her excessive spending, the treachery of his former steward, the abuse of his tenants, and the poor advice my father did not know to ignore from resentful fathers, Longbourn quickly became a burden. Better to make no decision at all than to make another disastrous one.”

Clearly Mr. Darcy did not agree with her father’s view, but he did not take issue with it. She added, “To make matters worse, he had no son. The estate is entailed to the closest male relative, a gentleman we have never met. Anything my father does for the estate will benefit the heir presumptive, not his own wife and daughters.”

Elizabeth stopped walking, turning to face Mr. Darcy. She did not want his pity, but she deeply desired his understanding. “When Father found the painting, he saw a way to provide for us he can be confident will work. That is why he will not sell it. It is his way of providing for us.”

“I am not without feeling. Your father’s reason is a strong one… but so is mine.”

Elizabeth's heart clenched. Desperately, she pleaded, “When my father dies, I swear to you that I will accept no other offer for the painting other than yours. Only, please, allow us to keep it until he is gone.”

“Who gives you the authority to make such a promise?”

“My father. He willed the painting to me. It is all arranged.”

Something in Mr. Darcy’s eyes shifted, but his stance remained firm. “Your father is hardly on his deathbed. Why does he not agree to sell the painting to me now? ”

“If my mother and younger sisters know that we have money to spare, they will spend it.”

“I cannot purchase my painting because your father has not learned how to say ‘No’?”

“You have no difficulty saying, ‘No,’ do you, sir?” she snapped, regretting the words as soon as she said them.

“You cannot know my struggle, madam.” His voice trembled with passion.

She flinched. She had hurt him. “My comment was unfair. You have my apology. Is there no way we can reach an agreement?”

“Allow me to safeguard the painting at Pemberley.”

An olive branch! If only she could agree. “Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but if the painting was so secure at Pemberley, how did it end up at the marché ouvert ?”

The muscles at his jaw tensed. “I will invest the full amount of my offer in the four percents in your behalf. On the sad occasion of Mr. Bennet’s death, you and your sisters will inherit with interest.”

His offer was incredibly generous and reasonable, but Elizabeth knew her father would not bend. “You will not change your mind?”

“I cannot.”

Neither could she. Elizabeth’s shoulders sagged. She had laid her heart bare, had exposed her mother's and father’s faults, and had disclosed the completeness of their hopeless situation. It had all been for naught.

Mr. Darcy had treated her fairly, had made a reasonable offer, and she could not accept his terms. He must believe her to be a stubborn fool! Would that she had kept her mouth shut and her nose out of her father’s affairs.

Grasping the shreds of her dignity, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Well, then, it appears that our business here is done. I bid you good day, sir.”

Before she started to cry or do anything equally mortifying, she bowed her head, turned on her heel, and ran off, Remy trotting behind her.