She sighed again and closed her sketchbook. Someday she would sign her own name at the bottom of her work. For now, she must be content to continue as Mario Rossi, an insignificant Italian painter with a common name and unknown origin. As a man, she could earn money. As a man, she could paint. But unless Elizabeth developed a convincing Italian accent and dressed the part of a male, she would never be able to paint live portraits… which meant she must continue to paint landscapes.
Remy’s tail slapped against her legs. He pranced toward the door, reminding her that it was time to return to Longbourn and join her family around the breakfast table. After grabbing the book she always carried along with her sketchbook, she closed the door behind her with Remy at her heels.
Her mind wandered back to her problem as they walked. At her current pace, she had been completing one painting a month. It was not much, but it was all she could accomplish in the precious minutes she snatched during the day.
After having sold her work for four years, her paintings had earned a respectable sum that, with the help of her uncles, she had invested and grown. It was not enough to save Longbourn, though. Not unless she made some changes.
Could she complete one painting every fortnight? That was half the time she presently required, but if she managed it, her income would double. Good lighting was her biggest obstacle during the late autumn and impending winter months as well as the unreliable weather. She loved to walk and read out of doors, but if she insisted on walking too often in the rain and wind, her family would suspect something was amiss.
She could work up an idea in her sketchbook the evening before. She would have to resist the urge to adjust the scene as the painting developed before her eyes and revealed its story to her, but if she settled on an image and placed it clearly in her mind, it would shorten the hours she spent painting. That would gain her some precious time.
She scoffed at herself. Why rush an activity that gave her so much joy? Surely, the work she loved and delighted in would suffer.Shewould suffer. Her enjoyment came in the discovery, in the process of painting and layering colors rather than in completing a work to sell. “I might as well be a machine in a factory!”
Remy turned to her as though asking for an explanation, so she obliged. “I would feel nothing. And if I feel nothing, how can I expect my paintings to inspire anyone?”
Then again, she needed to earn more. If only she could draw higher prices… If only she could paint portraits! She groaned at the vicious circle that kept her trapped.
Longbourn came into view, a welcome distraction from her frustration. Her father’s carriage sat in the drive. He had returned from London. She prayed he bore good news, though in her experience, appointments with the banker seldom did.
He alighted from the conveyance, refusing Mr. Hill’s assistance. Instead, he pulled out a crate, which he cradled like a baby in his arms. Elizabeth frowned in confusion. Papa’s trip to London had been for business, not pleasure. Mama was certain to complain when she learned he had gone shopping without her. So intent was he on the crate that he did not notice Elizabeth follow him inside. Her mother and sisters swirled around him as he carefully set the crate down on one end of the breakfast table, completely impervious to the dishes he nudged out of the way as well as Mama’s warnings that he not snag the tablecloth.
“Was London a success, Papa?” Elizabeth asked, her anxiety winning out over her curiosity. If the financial institution did not extend her father’s loan, they would have no money to buy seed to plant in the spring.
With a nod and a mumble, he carefully pried off the lid and set it against the table leg. Elizabeth leaned forward impatiently to see what captured her father’s attention so fully.
Nestled on a bed of straw was a painting smaller than the atlas in her father’s library. She had hardly caught a glimpse of it when he lifted it from the straw and held it up for the occupants seated at the table to see.
Mama huffed and made a big to-do over her breakfast roll, tearing the bread in half and spooning generous helpings of fruit preserves on top in an apparent attempt to drown her disappointment in strawberries. Lydia was soon to follow, as was Kitty. Soon, Papa had the privilege of being glared at by the threesome while he held his painting as though it were the most precious masterpiece in the world. Mary took her place quietly and sipped from her teacup, clearly not knowing what to think. Truth be told, Elizabeth did not know what to think, either.
Jane, always the one to pacify and appease, said, “I have never seen such a beautiful work of art. Will it not look lovely in the front parlor, Mama?”
At this, Papa jolted from his reverie. “Absolutely not! Such a splendid display of technique and artistry must be protected and safeguarded.”
Mama stabbed her spoon into the jar of strawberry preserves. “You refuse to allow me and the girls to go to London for a shopping expedition with you, then you come home with a painting you will not allow us to see?”
“Come, my dear, you know very well that the purpose of my trip was to meet with the banker.”
Elizabeth sucked in a breath, but Papa gave her no significant look, nor did he seem inclined to say anything more on the subject. “I came upon this quite by accident, I assure you. When the door is open to my study, you will have plenty of occasions to see it hanging behind my desk from the hall.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you be so cruel to me? After all I suffer, with all I endure?” Mama shoved the berry-smothered roll into her mouth.
Papa turned the painting to face him, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, I can see how dearly you suffer, my dear. Shall I ask Hill to bring you more preserves?”
Mama’s chin trembled. “This is the last jar,” she said through a sniffle.
Elizabeth’s sisters lost interest in the painting when they realized how little fruit remained for them?all except for Jane, who went to the kitchen, no doubt searching for something that would distract them from their disappointment.
Papa, not one to be preoccupied with food, carried his painting into his study. Elizabeth followed, anxious to hear his news and to get a closer look at the piece.
“Papa, what did the banker?—?”
He held up his hand to his lips. “Shhhhh. Just look, Lizzy. Have you ever seen its like?”
Elizabeth looked. The worries of moments ago were instantly forgotten with her senses too full of wonder, excitement, inspiration, hope… and other emotions she could not even name. She had not had the opportunity to frequent art exhibitions in town, but she had memorized every print inside her father’s books. This, this glorious painting, was the work of a master!
She stepped closer, her hands over her heart, drinking in its beauty thirstily. The contrast of shadeand light, the Divine theme peeking behind every stroke of the brush, the style. She recognized the work of an artist whose skill she had dreamed of being able to one day see for herself. “Rembrandt?” she whispered.
“Stunning, is it not?” Papa replied in a church whisper.
