Georgiana proved an enthusiastic guide. “The carved balustrade is original to the house, over two hundred years old,” she explained as they ascended a sweeping staircase. “My grandfather—our grandfather, I suppose—had the steps replaced with marble, but insisted the original woodwork be preserved.”
Our grandfather. The casual inclusion sent warmth through Elizabeth’s chest, quickly followed by a stab of unease. She was allowing herself to be drawn into a fantasy that might prove as insubstantial as morning mist. Without proof beyond Mrs. Wickham’s claims andthe parish records, her position remained precarious at best, delusional at worst.
The gallery occupied much of the second floor’s west wing, where tall windows captured the afternoon light. Elizabeth’s breath caught as they entered the long, elegant space lined with generations of Darcy faces. Unlike the crowded, haphazard collections she had seen in other homes, these portraits were arranged with careful attention to chronology and relationship, creating a visual history of the family through time.
“We begin with the first Darcy to own Pemberley,” Georgiana explained, leading her to a somber gentleman in Elizabethan ruff and doublet. “And continue through to my father and mother here.”
Elizabeth followed the progression of faces—stern Georgians giving way to more relaxed Regency countenances, family resemblances threading through the generations like a repeated melody. The Darcy men shared a certain intensity of gaze, while many of the women possessed a distinctive arch to their brows that Elizabeth recognized from Georgiana’s face, and to her consternation, her own.
Unlike her sisters, who were fair like Mrs. Bennet, with florid faces and Grecian features, the Darcy women had shapely eyes that held secrets, and artfully curled hair that turned around a finger naturally.
“This is my grandfather, George Darcy,” Georgiana said, stopping before a portrait of a distinguished gentleman with kindly eyes and silver hair. “He was wonderfully indulgent with his grandchildren. Fitzwilliam says I reminded him of someone, though he never said who.”
Elizabeth studied the painted face, noting the intelligence in those dark eyes, the hint of humor around the mouth. This man had created the settlement that named her his heir. This man had loved her enough to ensure her future, even as an infant.
“And this is my grandmother, Sarah,” Georgiana continued, moving to the adjacent portrait. “She died when I was very young,but Mrs. Reynolds says she doted on babies. Always said the nursery was the happiest room in any house.”
Sarah Darcy gazed out from her frame with serene confidence, her dark hair arranged in an elaborate style that could not disguise the familiar curve of her cheekbones and the particular arch of her brows. Elizabeth lifted her hand unconsciously to touch her face, tracing the same lines she saw reflected in the painting.
“You look remarkably like her,” Georgiana observed with innocent wonder. “The resemblance is quite striking. Fitzwilliam noticed it too, though he pretended not to.”
Elizabeth was unsure when Darcy had noted her resemblance. He hadn’t said anything, but perhaps there was an unspoken language between brother and sister.
“Here,” Georgiana said softly, stopping before two portraits that made Elizabeth’s heart tumble.
“Uncle John and Aunt Rose,” Georgiana said softly. “Painted just after their marriage. They look so happy, do they not?”
Happy seemed too small a word for what Elizabeth saw in those painted faces. John Darcy gazed out with quiet confidence, one hand resting on a leather-bound book, his dark eyes warm with intelligence and humor. But it was Rose who captured Elizabeth’s attention, who made her breath catch and her vision blur with sudden tears.
Her mother—for there could be no doubt now, no possibility of coincidence—smiled from the canvas with such radiant joy that it illuminated the entire gallery. Rose Bennet Darcy had been beautiful, but more than that, she had been alive in a way that transcended paint and varnish. Her dark eyes danced with mischief, her lips curved in a smile that suggested she was perpetually on the verge of laughter. She wore a gown of deep blue silk that complemented her coloring perfectly, and around her throat…
“Is that a locket?” Elizabeth whispered, leaning closer to examine the delicate gold oval nestled at Rose’s throat.
“Oh yes,” Georgiana said. “She wore it always, according to Mrs.Reynolds. It contained miniatures of Uncle John and herself. So romantic, do you not think?”
Elizabeth stared at the painted locket, her heart hammering. The very piece Mrs. Wickham claimed to have left with her at Longbourn. The proof she demanded Elizabeth produce before providing her testimony. Seeing it here, around her mother’s throat, made the reality of her situation crash over her like a wave.
“She was beautiful,” Elizabeth whispered.
“Everyone says she brought light to Pemberley,” Georgiana said. “Grandmother called her ‘the breath of fresh air this dusty house needed.’”
Caroline drifted closer, her gaze assessing as it moved between Elizabeth and the portrait. “There is certainly a resemblance,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “Around the eyes and mouth, particularly.”
“The family chin,” Mr. Hurst contributed unexpectedly from where he had been examining a hunting scene several portraits away. “All the Darcy women have it—that stubborn little point. See it in the girl, see it in the portrait, see it in Miss Bennet.”
“How observant of you, Mr. Hurst,” Caroline remarked.
Mr. Hurst harrumphed. “Got an eye for bloodlines. Horses, dogs, people—quality shows through.”
Elizabeth scarcely heard their exchange, her attention fixed on Rose’s painted eyes. Was it merely wishful thinking that made her feel a connection across time? The logical part of her mind knew that portrait artists often flattered their subjects, emphasizing desirable features while minimizing flaws. And yet, she could not shake the sense that Rose Bennet Darcy’s essence had been captured here—the intelligence, the wit, the unconventional spirit that had apparently charmed the Darcy family despite her modest connections.
“There is another portrait you should see,” Georgiana said hesitantly. “It’s smaller, not part of the main collection.” She led Elizabeth to a small alcove where several more intimate family groupingshung. “The three of them together, painted when little Elizabeth Rose was perhaps eight months old.”
Elizabeth’s legs nearly gave way beneath her. There, captured in oils that had somehow preserved a moment from twenty years past, was the family she had never known. John Darcy stood behind his wife’s chair, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder, his face soft with devotion. Rose sat with a baby on her lap—a cherubic infant with dark curls and bright, curious eyes that seemed to look directly at the observer with fearless interest.
“Baby Elizabeth,” Georgiana said softly. “You.”
The baby wore a tiny white gown edged with lace, and her dark hair formed a perfect little curl over her forehead in a way that made Elizabeth’s hand rise instinctively to touch her own hairline, where the same stubborn curl had plagued her since childhood. The child’s plump cheeks and rosebud mouth were so clearly Elizabeth’s infant features that seeing them felt like looking through a window into a past she had never known existed.
