Page 2 of The Painting (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

F itzwilliam Darcy walked along the edge of Pemberley’s lake absently, as he had done many times in the last two months. Despite being surrounded by so much beauty, he felt nothing but sadness and loneliness. He had come home directly from Kent.

Georgiana was still in London, Bingley was away visiting a friend in Bath.

His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had been summoned to his regiment, which was a blessing after all, since his cousin spoke of Elizabeth too much.

Painfully much. There was no doubt that Richard was enchanted by Elizabeth.

If he could afford to choose with his heart, he would have likely pursued her. And she seemed to favour him too.

Most certainly she would not have refused Richard as she did him. “The last man in the world,” she had called him. Her words had cut his heart. How could the woman he loved so much, despise him so deeply? And how had he misjudged her true feelings so utterly and completely?

He wondered if his letter had changed her opinion of him enough for her to regret her unfair accusations regarding Wickham.

Or at least had it persuaded her not to believe the scoundrel’s lies?

When it came to Bingley and Miss Bennet she might have been correct to blame him.

The more he thought of it, the more he admitted that he may have been biased and prejudiced. And he intended to remedy his error.

But even if he did, any connection to Elizabeth was broken forever. He could not bear to meet her again, and most likely neither could she, considering that each was aware of the other’s feelings and equally hurt, although for different reasons.

“Do you miss her, sir? Of course you do, what a silly question.”

“What?” he startled, noticing Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, approaching him.

“Lady Anne. This is the time we always remember her. It has been thirteen years this week.”

“Yes,” he replied sternly, grieved and ashamed by his obliviousness. Even the memory of his mother had been blurred by his selfish suffering.

“She would be so proud of you, sir! Both of them would be.”

“Would they?” he asked without much care for his words.

The housekeeper immediately looked at him worriedly.

“Of course they would. Surely you do not doubt that! Anyone who knows you would agree. You have grown into a fine gentleman and the best landlord. All your tenants, everyone in Lambton knows of your generosity and many of them have felt it. They owe you their gratitude and respect!”

‘Your arrogance, your conceit, your…’

“Nobody owes me anything, Mrs Reynolds. You are too kind and very partial to me,” he said warmly. After serving the Darcys for more than twenty years, the gentle lady was part of the family. He felt easy and confident speaking to her.

“Of course we do—myself included. Very few people have the good fortune to find such an excellent and kind master!”

“I am not certain if this is true. I shall not pretend modesty; I am aware of my skills and knowledge and I know I am managing Pemberley well enough, but strangers are rarely fond of me, or I of them. I have been taught good principles, but I fear I apply them in a selfish and conceited way…”

“Excuse me? What nonsense is this? I shall not allow you to speak in such a way about yourself!”

“And yet, it is true. I cannot deny that I always like to have my own way—”

“Because your way is the right way, sir!”

He smiled affectionately. “Not always. Recently I have realised how wrong I have been on several occasions.”

“I doubt that, sir! If you were wrong, I am sure you did it with a good heart.”

“You are too fond of me to be objective, Mrs Reynolds. Even when you admit my errors, you find a way to excuse them.”

“And you are too hard on yourself—you always have been.”

“Not this time, Mrs Reynolds. This time I deserve it.”

“Would the master share with me the reason for his remorse?”

“I have never kept secrets from you, Mrs Reynolds. Do you remember Mr Bingley?”

“Of course I do! Such a fine young man!”

“One of the finest I know. A few months ago I convinced him to separate from a young lady he truly admired. And now both of them seem to be suffering.”

The housekeeper gasped. “Why did you do such a thing?”

“I considered the lady did not return his genuine affection and that her family was wanting in more ways than one.”

Mrs Reynolds glanced at him. “That was not very wise. One can rarely be sure of what is in a young lady’s heart.”

“So very true, Mrs Reynolds. It is just further proof of my selfishness. I judged solely on my observations and not for a moment did I doubt my judgement. And now, two estimable people are miserable.”

“May I ask how you know that? That you were wrong?”

“I was told by the lady’s sister. She was quite angry with me and blamed me for her sister’s unhappiness.”

“Well…” the lady said. Her words were few but her tone revealed her opinion.

“Well indeed,” Darcy smiled bitterly.

“I would not blame yourself too much though; to me, it is obvious you acted in what you believed to be your friend’s best interest.”

“Even so, it is no excuse for causing him pain. I should have remained cautious, instead of forcing my opinion on him.”

“You are a fair and honourable man, sir. If you know your actions caused unintended harm, I am sure you will find a way to remedy them. Perhaps if Mr Bingley was made aware of the error...If the affection was real, it should be strong enough to have lasted these few months,” the housekeeper said in a polite tone.

“I have already written to Bingley and indicated that I wish to speak to him. But he is still in Bath. I would rather speak to him in person, perhaps when they come to visit in late July.”

“But there are almost two more months until then,” Mrs Reynolds said, then quickly minded her words. “Forgive me, sir, it is not for me to question your decision. I should return to the house now.”

“Do not hesitate to speak freely with me, Mrs Reynolds. You are right, of course. Two months could be a long time.”

The woman returned to her duties, while Darcy resumed his solitary walk and self-reproach.

He had nothing more to lose, so for him, two more months meant nothing.

But to Bingley—and even to Miss Jane Bennet—it could be the difference between torment and tranquillity.

He owed his friend enough consideration to confess the truth immediately—that part of the truth that could be revealed at least.

An hour later he was alone in his apartment, prepared to write to Bingley again, searching for the right words. He had to be more cautious than he had been when he confessed his love for Elizabeth. Had his manner of addressing her not been so ungentlemanlike, perhaps...

Darcy banished such reflections, gathering his thoughts again.

But the recollections and regrets kept returning.

He glanced at the locked door—beyond it, was the mistress’s apartment.

That door had not been opened since his father passed away and he had moved into the master suite.

A maid entered Lady Anne’s chamber to dust and to open the windows from time to time, using the door from the hall.

Darcy also visited the apartment briefly, every time he arrived at Pemberley, but never for longer than a few grieving minutes.

If Elizabeth had accepted his proposal, that door would have been open now. Her liveliness, her joy, her laughter would have slowly replaced the sadness. But that would never happen. Very likely, that apartment would remain locked for a long while, if not forever.

That week, thirteen years ago, his mother had passed away.

For the first time, his thoughts were torn between his beloved mother and another woman—and he felt guilty that the grief was almost equally heavy to bear.

He felt like he was betraying his mother—who had loved him beyond words—by thinking of his lost felicity with a woman who despised him.

He paced his room, filling a glass of brandy.

Induced by guilt, he took the key and unlocked the door, pushing it and stepping inside reluctantly.

It was dark and stifling, so he hurried to open the windows.

The sun burst in, hurting his eyes. Very few things looked different from when his mother was alive; dust had covered the furniture but the past suffering seemed yet present.

Darcy looked around; no, Elizabeth would not have liked the chamber. It was quite unlike her. But of course, that mattered little, considering the circumstances.

Memories—old and new—overwhelmed him. The image of the two women invaded his mind, burning his soul. His eyes rested on the large bed, where his mother had spent her last months, then travelled to the opposite wall.

There was the large portrait of Lady Anne on the seashore, young and stunningly beautiful, framed by a picturesque sunset. She was wearing a little smile that Darcy did not remember ever seeing.

He moved closer, gently touching the paint with tentative fingers. He took off his neckcloth and gently wiped away the dust, looking at his mother. Her eyes seemed so vivid that he shuddered.

Other memories overcame him and suddenly, thirteen years later, he remembered his mother’s plea to burn the painting.

He stepped back, withdrawing his fingers as if they had been scalded.

Why would she wish that beautiful portrait to be burned?

It seemed almost sacrilege. After another moment of hesitation, he took down the painting and placed it on the bed.

The wall was empty and the entire room seemed different.

Darcy looked at the painting again, with wonder.

He turned it over, searching the back of it, then turned it again and again.

He concluded that his mother must have been affected by her ordeal and was not fully aware of her request. He could not destroy such a beautiful reminder so he picked up the painting to return it to where it belonged on the wall.