Page 1 of The Painting (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
T he grandiose apartment with large windows had been burdened by months and months of suffering and sadness.
In a corner the doctor, the master of the house, the housekeeper and a maid were watching from afar.
In the middle of the room, on an impressive bed, a beautiful lady, pale and weak, resting with her head against the pillow, was struggling to speak. On her left side was a little girl with blonde hair, her blue eyes blurred by fear, holding the woman’s arm and crying silently.
At her other side, a boy on the cusp of maturity, with dark eyes, an intense stare and a deep frown, was holding the woman’s hand.
“My dear, beautiful boy. My pride and joy! Please do not cry. Not now, nor when I am gone. Not too much. Be strong for your sister. And for your father. He is a good man.”
“But Mother… are you in pain? What can I do to help you?”
“My darling, be sure I am in no pain. Not anymore. No pain at all. My only suffering is that I must leave you and Georgiana so soon,” she whispered, caressing both the girl and the boy’s hair.
“Then please do not leave, Mother. Do not leave us,” the boy begged, tearfully.
The woman kissed his hand, wet from his tears.
“It is God’s will, my dear boy. I shall go whenever He calls me. But I will always watch over you and Georgiana. You, my boy— stronger, cleverer, more honourable and more trustworthy than a grown man. My pride and joy,” she repeated.
The boy kissed her hand, just as she had kissed his, a moment before. His eyes were tearful and his hand trembled while holding his mother’s. Their gazes of profound mutual affection were filled with sorrow for the loss that both knew could not be avoided.
“My dear boy, promise me you will marry only a woman who deserves you. A woman with whom you can share a blissful life. A woman that will touch both your mind and your heart. And watch over Georgiana, help her to find true happiness.”
“I will, Mother. I promise.”
“And take care of your father. He seems so strong, so steady, but he will need you. You must be their rock, my boy, or they will fall without you. You are strong, my dearest.”
“I will, Mother. But I am not strong either. I need you!”
“I know you need me, but I can only stay in your heart and in your mind, not by your side. You will have to walk on without me, but I know you will take the path of honour and kindness and honesty. This is your—”
“You trust me too much, Mother!”
“No, my boy, I trust you just as much as you deserve!”
A heavy pause followed, then she stroked the boy’s face. “My darling, I must ask you something else. A great favour.”
“What is it, Mother? Ask me anything.”
“The painting…” she whispered in an even lower voice.
“The painting? Which one?” he asked, confused and grieved.
“That painting,” she gestured towards the one that hung on the opposite wall.
She had always kept it in her apartment since the boy could remember. It was a picture of the lady in her youth, a long while ago, on the shore in Brighton, at sunset. The boy had never looked at it carefully and in that sorrowful moment, his interest was only on his suffering mother.
“What about the painting, Mother? ”
“After I am gone, please burn it,” she whispered, caressing his face again.
“Burn it?” the boy asked in astonishment.
“Yes, my darling, please burn it. Just as it is, take it down and put it in the fireplace. Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said, confused, his heart aching with despair. He moved his head nearer to her, and so did the little girl. The woman took their hands and joined them in hers, over her chest.
A short while later, their father took them both out of the room, while the doctor and the maid remained to attend to the patient.
The girl was taken away by her governess, but the boy refused to depart. He remained there, outside the door, for hours, until he was allowed to join his mother again. It was a ritual that repeated again and again in the days that followed, and nothing could deter the boy from it.
A week later, Lady Anne Darcy passed away, leaving behind a deep sorrow in everyone who had known her and an inconsolable, heartbroken family.
Despite her long illness and the weakness that had kept her to her bed for the last year, despite the doctor’s sceptical reports and warnings, the tragedy devastated her husband and children.
Her daughter—only three years old—barely knew what was happening, but her suffering was so profound that she fell ill for several weeks afterwards.
Dreading another loss her father, George Darcy, barely left her side, oblivious to everyone and everything but his daughter’s recovery.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, at the age of fifteen, took on the burden of the family’s sorrow, as well as the duties and responsibilities related to his name.
He felt it was his responsibility and furthermore, it was what his beloved mother expected of him.
His goal was to become worthy of her trust, and to keep her alive by honouring his promises to her.
Amid all that terrible distress, worried for his sister and his father, diligently studying and learning the business of the estate, he barely had time to indulge his own suffering.
He was so busy fulfilling his mother’s expectations and all the other promises he had made to her, that he completely forgot about the painting and her plea to burn it.