Elizabeth nodded, her heart thudding against her ribcage. Had he really just invited her to Pemberley? She turned and stared at the watercolour piece. “I am unsure if I shall ever make it to the Peak District, but I thank you.”
“Do you like this painting?” he asked after another pause. “Personally, I find it too flighty.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “I might have known,” she replied with a laugh. “You seem to be one who would prefer darker subject matters. Perhaps a man riding his horse through a rainstorm? Or a battlefield?” It was odd that she felt comfortable enough to tease him, but the words had flown from her mouth unbidden. What was she thinking? She had it on goodauthority from Miss Caroline Bingley that Mr Darcy was not to be teased.
To her surprise, he chuckled softly and shook his head. “You are right about me, I suppose. I am of the mind that art should not be merely decorative, but should tell a deeper story.” He met her gaze and a shock of some emotion she could not name ran through her. Could it be excitement? Surely only at the prospect of crossing swords with him.
Mr Darcy licked his lips, a strangely uncertain gesture in so confident a man, and went on. “Just as a woman should not be merely decorative in a drawing room, but should be cherished for her mind and spirit as well.”
Elizabeth blinked slowly. This version of Mr Darcy was not matching up against the picture Mr Wickham had painted. It was an interesting paradox. No — an irresistible one.
“That is an interesting sentiment, especially for a man of your station,” Elizabeth replied.
“It should not be a rare sentiment. Do you think so lowly of your own sex?” he asked.
“I do not. But I should have expected something quite different from you, that is all.”
“Perhaps you do not know me as well as you think you do.”
A flutter assailed her breast, and she started walking. Strangely, she was glad when he followed her. “What do you think of this one, Mr Darcy? Too ethereal for you, I suppose?”
It was a mountain scene, with curling wisps of mist surrounding the looming pine trees. A lone woman stood at the bottom of the mountain, looking up at the summit as if it were an insurmountable task. And yet, she seemed to move toward it,as though she were determined to try all the same. She looked over at Mr Darcy and was pleased that he was studying the piece rather than brushing her off.
He cocked his head to the side. “No. I like this one. It is not so muchdark,as you might say. But it has depth to it. I should very much like to know what that young woman is thinking.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes trained on the painting. “I think she is caught in between two decisions. She knows that going forward will put her face to face with challenges and difficulties. She must have perseverance if she is to make it to the top — even when she cannot fully see what the terrain will be like.”
“That is a very interesting interpretation. Perhaps it is even deeper still,” Mr Darcy suggested.
Elizabeth leaned towards him, fascinated. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it is not only a study on outward trials and difficulties, but the inward terrain of a person. We all have challenges we face inwardly, some that no one else will ever know about. And yet these inner challenges and how we deal with them make us who we are. She must decide whether she is going to climb that mountain of difficulty — whether it be insecurity, fear, or pride — and tackle that character flaw, or whether she will turn away, refusing the challenge.”
Elizabeth was stunned by his insight. “That is very good, Mr Darcy. I confess, I do not know if I ever would have made that connection.”
“Oh, no, do not say such things. You are very intelligent.” The words were spoken so matter-of-factly, they seemed more a statement of fact than a compliment. Elizabeth was shocked to find herself smiling at Mr Darcy.
They continued walking among the paintings, exchanging ideas about each one. She no longer tried to guess what he was thinking, for his insights were far and above what she would have guessed. As he spoke, especially about his sister, Elizabeth realised with a shock that he was not as arrogant and aloof as she had previously believed. He was a quiet man, not because he felt others to be unworthy of his conversation, but because he placed great importance on every word. Had she misjudged him the entire time they had been at Meryton together?
When a full half-hour had elapsed, Mr Darcy turned to her and cleared his throat. “I must confess that I came here for a purpose today, Miss Bennet. After our meeting at the concert, I had the distinct feeling that something was amiss, and I have come to —”
“Ah, there you two are. We were looking all over for you,” Colonel Fitzwilliam broke in.
Elizabeth chided herself for her self-consciousness. Why did she feel embarrassed to have Colonel Fitzwilliam appear, as though he had caught them in the act? They had done nothing wrong.
With an effort, Elizabeth pulled herself together and attempted to reply with something approaching her normal cheerfulness. “We have been discussing the paintings,” she announced. “Mr Darcy has some very interesting insights.”
The colonel laughed. “You are perhaps too generous. Darcy, offering art criticism? The mind boggles.” He offered Elizabeth his arm. “Georgiana is waiting for you near the parlour. There was a painting she has grown quite fond of that she wanted to seek your advice about.”
Mr Darcy watched them go, his face unreadable. She, too, found herself surprised by how unwelcome she found theinterruption. What was this new emotion that she had no right to feel? After all, Mr Darcy had been utterly beastly, embarrassing her in front of everyone at the Netherfield ball when the witless Mr Collins had proposed. Worse still, there was the abominable way he had treated Mr Wickham.
“I hope my cousin has not bored you, or made you uncomfortable with the famous Darcy silence,” Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked. “You must not take it to heart if he is rather quiet. He is a serious sort of fellow, but a good man.”
“He did not make me uncomfortable,” she admitted truthfully. It was difficult for her to understand. A few short days ago, she could barely stand the sight of him. “We had a delightful conversation about the pieces, even though our personal artistic tastes are not the same.” He brought her a glass of punch and they sat down on one of the marble benches together. “You seem very close to Mr Darcy.”
“Yes, we were always close growing up. Of course, I am sure it is that way with cousins — but he was more of a brother to me than a cousin. He never looked down on me because I was the second son. He treated me more like an equal than my own brother.” Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “Darcy is my closest friend. I know I could rely on him for anything, and I hope he would say the same of me.”
Elizabeth smiled at this. “It pleases me to hear of close family relationships. I think family is the most important thing that one can have.”
