Page 52 of Mr. Darcy's Complex Courtship

My aunt stood and came to me. “Lizzy, what has happened between the two of you?”

“I have no idea what prompted her outburst.” I retrieved the newspaper from the floor and gave each page a cursory glance until I reached the People and Fashion section, and the second paragraph drew my attention:

Many in town have been charmed by the handsome and amiable distant cousin of a prominent bachelor from Derbyshire. According to a close family friend, this gentleman, who is a gifted artist, will not remain single for long; he is smitten with a country lass from a modest estate in Hertfordshire, one who has earned the favour of an esteemed countess. Well, at least his much wealthier cousin is not yet taken!

Oh no!Everyone in town would read this dross. Would they accept this as verity?

“Lizzy, what did you find?”

I handed the paper to Aunt Gardiner. She scoured the article with Mrs. Perry reading over her shoulder. My aunt shook her head. “This is unfortunate. I wonder who provided this…information.”

“It must have been Miss Bingley. She and Mrs. Hurst came upon Mr. Miles and me in Hyde Park on Friday. She suggested we were courting. We both denied the notion, but it was obvious she did not believe us.”

Mrs. Perry approached me and patted my shoulder. “Do not fret, Miss Bennet. I shall speak to Miss Lydia.”

“Thank you.”

My aunt urged me back to my seat and refilled my teacup. I took a tiny sip of the steaming liquid, but my appetite had disappeared. She moved to the chair next to me. “Are you concerned Mr. Darcy will read the paper and suspect it might be true?”

I attempted to disregard the disconcerting rumble in my belly. “No. Lady Matlock promised to inform him that we are appearing together in public at her direction. And although Papa has forbidden us from corresponding, I believe Mr. Miles is writing to Mr. Darcy, so if he has not already related our encounter with Miss Bingley, I am certain he will do so now.”

“Ah, that is well.”

Later that day, Lydia came to my room and stood before me with a droopy bearing. “I am sorry, Lizzy. I should not have assumed what I read was true. Will you forgive me?”

“Very well, I accept your apology.” I approached my sister and tweaked her nose, as I used to do years ago. She giggled and gave me a brief hug. “Will you be punished for your outburst?”

“Yes, I am to dine in the nursery for the next two days.” Lydia shrugged. “It is not so bad though—our cousins are diverting.” She flashed a crooked smile and quit my room.

I picked up the novel I had been reading, but visions of my dearest Fitzwilliam filled my head, and I set the book down again. What was he doing at this moment? It must be arduous for him to cope with an anguished Lady Catherine whilst his poor cousin lay dying. And what, if anything, had transpired between him and Miss Finch? He could not have fallen in love with her; I should not entertain anything so ridiculous. Yet…did he admire her? I held my head in my hands. Oh, I missed him so much!Please, Fitzwilliam, come back soon.

Friday, 19 June

Darcy House

Elizabeth

Upon my arrival, Slade led me to the large sitting room serving as an artist’s workshop and occupied solely by Mr. Miles.

Upon my enquiry, Mr. Miles related Miss Darcy had been delayed and would soon join us.

I came today so he could complete the portrait, which he had been labouring upon these past two weeks. I had travelled from Gracechurch Street with a maid and a footman. Before I could raise the subject of the slanderous drivel in the newspaper, Mr. Miles assured me that he had written to Fitzwilliam and explained the likely origin of the rumour. A burst of esprit energised me at this welcome assertion.

Mr. Miles showed me his most recent creation—a stunning depiction of Kensington Gardens commissioned by a neighbour—and I praised him for the gorgeous painting. When I declined his offer of tea, he settled me upon a lone Hepplewhite-style chair placed in the centre of the room. “Please move your head a touch to the right.” He tilted his hands to illustrate the change he sought.

I attempted to follow his instruction. “How is this?”

He took a few steps back and scrutinised me. “Yes, that is perfect. Pray, hold that position.”

“Very well, I shall do my best.”

I began the enterprise of serving as an artist’s model with enthusiasm, but within twenty minutes or so, ennui set in for the forced immobility. Whilst the minutes dragged on, my arm muscles ached, and I tried to disregard the inclination to fidget. With Mr. Miles occupied in his work, I remained silent rather than engage him and hinder his progress.

Crisp footfalls preceded Slade’s entrance, and he strode to Mr. Miles. “Pardon me, sir. Mrs. and Miss Hawkins are here to see you.”

Mr. Miles jerked his paint-brush from the small, greenish clump on his palette, creating a fresh stain on the fabric that protected the wood floor. He made a slow turn towards Slade. “Did you sayHawkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

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