Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

" H ere we are," announced Mrs Reynolds, stopping in front of a large portrait of Mr Darcy. She waved her hand at the painting and added, "The master. It was taken in his father's lifetime, some six or seven years ago, but in my opinion, it is a good likeness even now."

The gallery at Pemberley was a long corridor on the first floor of the great house, with a row of tall windows on one side and various pieces of art displayed against the wall on the other. There were numerous portraits, most of which were Darcys of yore, but there were also a few landscapes and still-lifes sprinkled into the line for variety, in addition to assorted works of pottery and sculpture. One particular bust of some ancestor had a nose that looked familiar, but Elizabeth felt that the current master wore it better. At the very centre of the hall, the group was stopped before a life-sized representation of the Mr Darcy she was acquainted with, flanked by wall sconces that would illuminate it even in darkness. He looked every bit as powerful as his forebears, and his abominable pride, when surrounded by so many august personages, seemed completely reasonable.

Elizabeth was forced to agree with the housekeeper, who proceeded to enthuse over what a remarkable likeness the painting conveyed. The artist, whoever he was, had done a magnificent job of capturing the essence of the strong, masculine master of Pemberley. He stood, tall and proud, with one hand at his lapel and the other propped against the mantelpiece that their guide had presented to them in the library down below. His boot rested against the hearth before a roaring blaze, the leather reflecting the orange light in a sheen that indicated a high polish. She had seen him display himself in just such a way on several occasions during his stay in Hertfordshire, and she smiled in appreciation of how very like him it was. The only other position in which he was more familiar would be with his back turned to the room as he stared out of a window, but she supposed that would not make a terribly good portrait. After all, his face would be what future generations would be most interested to see, and although he had quite a habit of hiding it from others, it was well worth looking at.

Mrs Reynolds continued to expound upon the painting—when it had been commissioned, what occasion it had been made for, and so on—while Elizabeth kept her eyes trained upon it. The face that ought not be hidden was so very handsome, and the artist had managed to capture Mr Darcy in one of his gentler moments. She knew it was not creative liberty because he wore a smile that, in retrospect, she recognised as one he had turned upon her on occasion. She rather wondered what he had been smiling about at the time his image had been taken, but the housekeeper either had no such knowledge to impart or was disinclined to do so. Whatever it had been, Elizabeth now strangely felt that his benevolence was for her benefit, no matter how ridiculous that seemed.

The Gardiners and Mrs Reynolds moved on to another painting, and Elizabeth could vaguely hear them commenting upon it, but she remained where she was, staring at the man she had so scornfully rejected back in the spring. That enigmatic smile seemed to be just for her, showing her a magnanimity that she did not deserve. Oh, how she had misjudged him! And for a man such as Mr Wickham. She, who had been so proud of her discernment and ability to sketch characters, had made the mistake of believing that a person's goodness was linked to his amiability in society. Had she not spent much of her lifetime controlling her impulses in company to show good manners to others? Was that not some form of mask used to beguile people into seeing only the best parts of her? Mr Wickham had done much the same but with nefarious motives hidden behind his congenial aspect.

Mr Darcy, in contrast, had failed to be polite and had even occasionally given offence, but there had been no cause to doubt his honesty. Considering the wild behaviour of some of her own family, how could she condemn the man for poor manners? Her prejudice against him had been born the night of the assembly, when he had wounded her vanity, cracked that veneer she wore to put her best self forwards, and made her feel as unworthy as her mother often told her she was. Elizabeth had not been as angry with Mr Darcy as she had been at the realisation that she was nothing special to this distinguished stranger. Of course, he had apparently changed his mind later, but she had been unaware of such, and his belittling proposal had done nothing to alleviate the shame of being considered somehow defective.

Even so, that was absolutely no cause for wounding him as she had. Not only had she accused him of underhanded dealings with Mr Wickham, but she had also overlooked his declaration of ardent love and stomped his heart beneath her slipper before grinding it into the floor. She would never forget the expression on his face as she had dared to call him ungentlemanly; he had been stiff and pale, almost as if on the verge of tears, though he had held them back in her presence. Elizabeth had accused him of cruelty to her sister and Mr Bingley, but it was she who had been wantonly vicious. She looked away from the contentedly genial face of Mr Darcy, too ashamed to face even his likeness.

If only she could see him one last time, or even respond to his letter, she would apologise for every awful thing she had said. Even his self-defence on the score of separating his friend from Jane had shown some merit upon second perusal. Had the situation been reversed, Elizabeth might have offered her dearest sister the same advice, though she supposed that Jane would have ascertained the feelings of her suitor from the source rather than simply disappearing. Abandoning Jane was Mr Bingley's failing, not his friend's.

Well , she decided as she raised her eyes back up to Mr Darcy, there is no cause to agonise over the past, as the remembrance gives me no pleasure. If I never see him again, I can at least wish him happy.

Elizabeth walked up close to the painting and, without deliberation beforehand, reached out her fingers to fondly stroke the glossy image on the canvas. A small sigh escaped her. "Forgive me, sir. You are the very best of men and deserved better from me. If I cannot say so to your person, at least I can do so now. May you be blessed with every happiness."

Squeak .

Elizabeth quickly withdrew her hand and turned at the sudden noise. A stammering apology was upon her lips for the presumption of touching the portrait, but she discovered that there was no one there to receive it. How odd. "Is-is anyone there?"

Further perusal of the space confirmed her solitude; there was no sign of her relations or the housekeeper, only a heavy silence that made the sound of her galloping heart seem louder by comparison. Bother! They must have left while I was occupied with Mr Darcy. I do hope they have not gone far and I can find them quickly.

Elizabeth inclined her head towards Mr Darcy's painting one final time and returned his smile. She wished his image well, then turned to proceed in the direction her group had been heading upon arrival.

Squeak .

Elizabeth halted in the middle of the lush carpet as the door at the end of the corridor opened, seemingly of its own accord. Based on the coincidental timing, she concluded that this was also the source of the sharp squeal that had interrupted her interlude with Mr Darcy's portrait previously.

She looked ahead of her; she looked behind her. There were no others in evidence, either of her own party or an unknown servant. Elizabeth was utterly alone. Who could have opened the door?

She felt a thrill of fear climb up her spine, one vertebra at a time, like a mouse scampering up her back on tiny, prickly feet. She felt silly for even considering it, but could the servant boy's story have been true? Were there ghosts at Pemberley? Surely not! What a preposterous notion, Lizzy.

The door stood perfectly still as she observed it at length, suspiciously immobile after its recent activity. Could a piece of wood mock a person?

On tentative, light feet, Elizabeth approached the room and craned her neck to see inside. It appeared to be some sort of study, feminine in design, with a rosewood desk stretched along the far wall beneath an expansive window. The walls were papered in a silvery cerulean with a subtle raised pattern of willow fronds dotted across it with calculated haphazardness. There was a thick rug of deep Prussian blue laid upon the floor in front of the fireplace, and a pair of chairs in complementary ivory were turned at an angle to face the hearth. Nothing sinister, nothing mysterious. Gathering the courage on which she prided herself, Elizabeth breached the threshold and stepped inside.

As she had perceived from without, there was nothing noteworthy about this room other than the elegant furnishings, which was true of every other she had so far seen at Pemberley. Although tempted to peek inside the handsome black and yellow Japan cabinet to her left and examine the spines of the books lining the whitewashed bookcases on either side of the fireplace, Elizabeth resisted such foolishness. It would not do to be caught snooping through the contents of a room in which she did not belong; she doubted that even the most superstitious of servants would believe she was searching for ghosts and not treasures to pilfer.

When one of her own curls tickled her cheek, Elizabeth jumped as if it had been a cold, otherworldly finger stroking her face. With her pulse pounding in her ears, she turned to observe that the window above the desk was open and letting in a lovely summer breeze. She laughed aloud at her own foolishness; like almost all unexplained frightening things, it had been the wind causing mischief. Of all the ridiculous nonsense. Spirits, indeed!

She ventured over to the open window and, with her hands placed upon the surface of the desk for balance, bent to observe the aspect. She gasped softly as she beheld it.

Across the great lawn were a portion of the woods that her aunt had so praised the evening before, and admittedly, they were very fine. Beyond the trees, far off towards the horizon, she could see the peaks rising up in the distance. In Hertfordshire, rolling hills were the rule and not the exception, so such wild, craggy protrusions were a novelty to Elizabeth. They stood like kings reaching up to heaven.

Closer to her location, she smiled to see the infamous lake where the ghost supposedly resided. It was really more of a stream that had swelled to greater prominence in front of the house, but a lake was not an unfair term for it. It was wide across and, if the dark colour towards the centre was any indication, quite deep in places. Why a ghost would choose to dwell there, she could not imagine, but perhaps the living were simply deprived of choice by their habit of breathing. Elizabeth chuckled to herself over her little joke.

"'Tis no wonder this room is a study! I should like to write my letters here every morning, given the chance." Her cheeks burned, and she blessed her solitude when she realised the import of what she had just said, yet she still could not tear her gaze from the spectacular view.

Motion down by the lake caught her eye, and she turned her head to sate her curiosity. There was some movement in the water, but she could not detect its source through the thick veil of a willow grove along the bank. There was a splash and a cheerful bark, resolving the mystery to Elizabeth's amused satisfaction.

"What do you think, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth, upon hearing the faint sound of her name, was distracted from the activity by the lake and looked down below to see the Gardiners and Mrs Reynolds strolling beneath her upon the lawn. All three had turned back to, presumably, hear her opinion of whatever had been under discussion only to realise that she was absent. Her aunt called out her name again, more loudly this time, with the clear intention of bringing her forth.

Elizabeth pushed the window open a bit wider and, with one hand bracing herself upon the desk, leant forwards in order to make her response heard. She could apprise them of her presence within the house then rush out to meet them if they would but stay in the same spot. "Aunt?—"

Creak— crash .

Elizabeth jumped away as the window snapped back at her, shutting her off from the outside. "My goodness!" Had she been but a few seconds slower, her fingers would have been caught in the frame and likely injured. There must have been a strong gust of wind.

She returned to the window, lifted the latch, and pushed against the pane to open it again, but it was stuck. She pressed harder against the frame, but the stubborn thing refused to budge at all. Perhaps the wind had been so strong that it had been wedged shut? How strange.

Elizabeth peered through the glass and down to see that her relatives and Mrs Reynolds were moving on to other locations, spreading out in different directions in an apparent attempt to find her. "Wonderful," she groused aloud, even though there was no one around to hear her. Well, she was fairly certain that was true.

Anxiously glancing over her shoulder, Elizabeth confirmed that she was, indeed, quite alone. Not a single shadow stirred, nor could she hear any sound apart from her own laboured breathing. There were no signs of life, although she could not help but feel there was an invisible presence in the room with her.

Shaking off the most ridiculous notion she had ever entertained before, Elizabeth made the practical decision to simply descend to the lower floor and venture out into the grounds to intercept her party. She had a relative idea of their whereabouts and would hopefully be back in their company soon.

Thus decided, Elizabeth left the way she had come in, glancing suspiciously at the door as she passed through it, and headed in the direction she remembered the staircase to be.