Page 36 of The Talented Daughters of Longbourn

“Please tell me about your arrangement with Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Are you committed to staying single until Miss Darcy is twenty? Are you required to pay for your food and lodging while living with them?”

“No, no, not at all. Indeed, my cousin Darcy is very generous, and if I married, my wife and I would stay with him. But clothing is expensive, you know, and horses, and nursemaids, and well, I would not wish for my wife to be unhappy with limited funds. ”

The lady considered him for a long moment, and he found himself holding his breath. It seemed likely she would turn him down, regretfully but firmly.

“Come, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said, standing up quickly with a rustle of her black skirt. “I wish to show you something. Clementina, please join us.”

He rose, filled with hope and confusion, and followed the lady he adored out of the sitting room, down a hall, up a side stairwell, and into an attic room which was, he comprehended immediately, an art room.

It was a generous space, filled to brimming with natural light, the entire southern wall lined with vast window after window, and two more flanking to the east and west. Tables dotted the room, and near the wall of windows sat two easels, each covered by a white cloth to protect whatever painting sat beneath.

The oak floor was swept and mopped and blotched and spattered with paint, scuffs from blocks of stone marring the unpolished surface.

“This must be your uncle’s studio?” he suggested. “I remember hearing that he is an artist.”

“Yes, it is,” the lady confirmed, and she guided her admirer over to a plain wooden table which was pushed against one of the windows to the south. There was a plain white sheet covering two lumps, and Miss Bennet carefully lifted the sheet up and away, revealing two marble sculptures.

Fitzwilliam gazed at them in wonder. Both sculptures were some eight to ten inches in height, and one, the finished one, showed a horse rearing up on its hind legs, its forelegs mid-air, its neck arched high, its slim nose and ears sculpted to perfection.

It was beautiful and elegant and glowed in the sunlight.

The other sculpture was obviously a long way from completion; he guessed, based on the initial work, that it was, or would be, the bust of a man.

“These are remarkable, Miss Bennet!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “Your uncle is very talented!”

“I sculpted these,” the lady said calmly.

Her swain gasped and turned a shocked look upon her, and then transferred his gaze to the maid Clementina, who could not refrain from a pleased smirk at his surprise.

It took him a moment, but eventually all the disparate threads of previous conversations came together, and he said, “You are an artist like your uncle and Miss Elizabeth!”

“I am.”

“You are incredible, Miss Bennet. You sell them, do you not? ”

“I do.”

He looked at her and observed the concern in her eyes. He could understand that. It was hardly common for a lady to be a sculptor. It was even more peculiar for the lady to sell her sculptures.

“I think it is marvelous,” he said, and Jane, who now had been the one holding her breath, felt herself sigh in relief. There was genuine admiration in those brown eyes and not a hint of distaste or disapproval.

“Is it a lucrative business?” he asked, not greedily, but curiously. He had no idea.

“It is,” she said. “But let me explain the history of all of this. My uncle Josiah is my paternal grandfather’s son by his second wife, and he is but eight years older than I am.

There are other artists in the family line, and Josiah began drawing and painting at a young age.

Initially, he used his nieces as models for some of his pictures and sculptures, but he was also eager to share his knowledge with those of us who showed interest. Elizabeth has an unbelievable memory for detail and began sketching at a young age.

I started at wood carving, and then transitioned to sculpting.

My uncle’s income from his paintings and portraits is now close to one thousand pounds a year, and Elizabeth and I have made at least four hundred pounds a year for several years, and this year will be better yet. Most of that money is invested. ”

“Does Miss Elizabeth sculpt as well, then?”

“No, but she provides the sketches which I use for my own work. She has an incredible ability to draw from different angles, which is very useful.”

“She drew pictures of Darcy while caring for Miss Kitty at Netherfield,” he murmured.

“And of you, sir,” Jane said merrily, walking over to a pile of sketch paper. She carefully picked through the stack until she removed one and presented it to him.

He found himself gasping again; Miss Elizabeth had drawn his upper torso and face from a three-quarter angle, and had caught every wrinkle in his coat, every crease on his face, every bump on his nose. It was remarkable.

“It is astonishing, though I am aware, once again, how much better looking my cousin Darcy is.”

“I prefer your appearance, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Jane said flatly, and then she blushed as he gazed upon her lovingly.

If he could get rid of the maid, he could ask for her hand in marriage now. A few hundred pounds a year was plenty in addition to his own income, especially since the Darcys would provide a roof over their head and food on the table .

The moment passed when a sudden, high pitched, feminine voice began squealing from the lower floor.

“My mother,” Miss Bennet said and smiled at him. “Please do come down, and we will have some tea.”

“I assume she does not know about your artistic activities?” he asked, holding out his arm for her to take.

She took the proffered arm and said, “She does not, though my sisters do, and my uncle Josiah as well, of course. My father also gave his blessing on our artistic endeavors many years ago. Outside of our family and certain trusted servants, no one knows but you.”

“I am honored by your trust, and I pledge to keep this in confidence,” he assured her with a slight bow.

“Thank you.”