Page 36 of Mr. Darcy's Complex Courtship

“Yes, I promise.” He stroked the back of my hand. “Would you mind calling upon my sister while I am gone?”

“I shall take pleasure in doing so. My aunt had wanted me to invite you both to dinner on Friday night. Shall I ask her to change the date to Sunday?”

“Yes, that would be agreeable.”

“Very well. Of course, if your brother—or rathercousin, as I must call him—returns to town with you, he is welcome too.”

He favoured me with a smile. “When Mrs. Gardiner extends the invitation, we shall be pleased to accept.”

Thursday, 28 May

Gay Street, Bath

Darcy

Seconds after my knock, a short, stout, grey-haired maid opened the door, and her bleary, brown eyes widened. “Can I ’elp you, sir?”

I handed her my card. “Mr. Darcy to see Mr. Wood.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Come in.” She stepped back and took my hat and coat. “Please wait in there.” She pointed at a set of chairs in a small room off the entryway. “I’ll let ’im know you’re ’ere.”

“Thank you.” I remained standing. A burst of fresh energy, tempered by apprehension, erased the fatigue from my travels that had plagued me moments earlier.

Brisk footsteps in the hall preceded Mr. Wood’s arrival. Even at a distance, the distinct appearance of his vari-coloured eyes drew my notice. He wore the attire of a tradesman: a dark-blue wool coat, brown breeches, and worn leather boots, all of low or average quality. As he drew closer, the familiar elements of his countenance stilled me. I had the sensation of viewing a tarnished looking-glass—or rather an embellished one; for Mr. Wood presented a handsomer, idealised version of my face.

He glanced at my card then directed his mismatched irises at me. “How do you do, Mr. Darcy. I am Mr. Miles Wood.” He bowed, and I returned the gesture.

“It is good to meet you, Mr. Wood.” A sudden fit of light-headedness induced me to shift my weight from one side to the other. As much as I had anticipated this moment, part of me hadnot accepted him as real. Yet there he stood,my brother, my twin.

“I take it you are interested in commissioning a painting. Have you seen my work?”

“I…no, I have not.”

Mr. Wood motioned to the wall on his right. “This is one of my landscapes, the Mendip Hills in Bristol.”

I stepped closer to study the picture. Mr. Wood had depicted the grassy field and the limestone on the cliff in painstaking detail. “This is excellent work.” I turned back to him. “But I am not here to hire you.”

“Oh, I had assumed…” He coughed. “How, then, may I help you?”

“Is there a place where we may speak in private?”

Mr. Wood stiffened, and it seemed he might demur. At last, he nodded. “Let us go to my room.” He led the way through an L-shaped passage and opened one of the doors, gesturing for me to enter.

Paintings filled the walls: landscapes, portraits, and still lifes. An easel, situated before the window, held a work in production: a pair of beagles romping in a meadow. “I am impressed. It seems you are skilled in portraying any subject.”

“I am glad you like them. I consider portraits to be my forte.” Mr. Wood indicated a painting to my left of an older couple: the woman sat upon a chair, and the man stood behind her.

For several moments, I perused the piece. He had portrayed the couple with enough authenticity that one could almost mistake them for reality. “I agree with you. This one is extraordinary.”

“Thank you. My late parents sat for this a few months before my father became ill.”

An image of Elizabeth came to mind. Could the glitter, liveliness, and intelligence reflected in her fine eyes be recreated on a flat piece of canvas?

Mr. Wood moved the sole chair in the room to face the bed. “Please have a seat.”

I took the proffered chair, and he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. “I have a revelation that is apt to shock you.” As I related the bizarre tale of Mr. Wood’s birth and kidnapping, he paled, and a ridge formed across his forehead. At the conclusion of my narrative, he grasped the bedpost and inclined against it. A weighty silence ensued.

He released a harsh breath. “Forgive me, but your account sounds too fantastic to be believed.”

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